The Gold Puppy

Be here now

2012-01-27T08:35:00.009-05:00

I saw an old couple on the subway a few days ago. I couldn't take my eyes off them. They looked relaxed and cheerful, were having what appeared to be a very fun, interesting conversation. Their vibe was great, but just as great was their appearance. Neither one of them was trying to look young. They were grey haired and it was clear neither had had "work" of any kind. She was dressed in a colorful tunic and leggings, her long hair in a braid down her back. He wore a simple sweater and pair of jeans, black Chuck Connors. I always notice shoes, so I can tell you she was wearing some version of a clog; I didn't recognize the brand. Maybe she was wearing a little make-up, maybe none at all. They were stylish in an age appropriate way. More significant, they looked comfortable in their wrinkly skins. It came to me that the only time old people look really weird is when they try to look younger.

It's sad, the way our culture vilifies aging. It's not like we've done anything wrong by growing old, we just haven't died yet. Watching a family close by who is about to deal with the untimely death of their 28 year old daughter makes me want even more than ever to embrace the wonders, beauty, wisdom and liberations of older age.

For a long time, in accordance with cultural hatred for old age, I tried to slam the brakes on my aging appearance; I colored my hair until just a few years ago, for instance. I loved it when people said, "You don't look THAT OLD!" because I didn't get it. I really didn't get it, how powerful and freeing it is to grow older. I had no idea I would like it so much! I also didn't understand that when people say I look young, they are insulting me. Why is it wrong to look my age? It's like saying, "Don't worry, you can hide your dirty little secret. No one will know." Please!

Researchers and scientists work their asses off every day, figuring out how to help us live longer and longer. But no one is putting two and two together: that a long life, in this culture, means you'll have to spend the last half pretending it isn't a long life. Or said another way, do these people want to be old for a really long time? Crazy.

Yes yes, life is precious. Being young has its pros and cons, just like every age. For those of my age who try so hard to act/look young, I want to say we had our time to do all that! Now it's another generation's turn. Same as it ever was.

Live well and fully. Be who you are, act your age! L'chaim.

When I walk, I am sane

2012-01-26T07:35:00.008-05:00

From inside the summerhouse on the Capitol grounds.

What a gentle "winter" we're having in DC. I can remember a time when I would find nice, warm 50 F. days in late January upsetting. For the life of me I can't remember why, because it's wonderful to be outside on a day like yesterday, walking around without gloves, a scarf, a hat, earmuffs, heavy coat, etc. Maybe for real I'm becoming a southerner! Is that possible?

May I name a very politically incorrect personal truth? Here goes: I don't enjoy sharing the streets with people on bicycles any more than the people driving cars. Some bike riders are calm, but a great many of them are just as likely to get all worked up about the flow of traffic as the people driving cars. They are far more likely to run red lights, weave in and out of cars and people, swear audibly and act crazy because a pedestrian (that would be me, for instance) DARES to walk and stroll, looking at the sky and taking pictures. No one in a car whips by me while I'm on a sidewalk, but bike riders do so all the time. No bell, no warning, no "on your left." Sometimes they come within an inch or two. It's as if they're entertaining the thought of running me down. It is unnerving.

It's better for the environment, but really what is up with people who ride bikes?

This morning the birds are singing and the squirrels are dashing around, hither and yon. It's going to rain today, but again the temps will climb into the 50s. After work, I'll be able to get out for at least a quick walk around Lincoln Park. I'll stay on the brick sidewalks where I stand the best chance of avoiding cyclists.

All is well. Shalom.

The green world is trying its best to go with the flow of this non-winter.

Bring it on

2012-01-25T08:31:00.009-05:00

DISCLAIMER: It's a weird one.

"Speciation is the result of rare events in the environment, such as genetic mutations, a shift in climate, or a mountain range rising up." --evolutionary biologist Mark Pagel

Because there are so many of us, and we're a little bit too clever for our own good, the climate is shifting. There's no doubt that much of what we do, how we live these days, is creating genetic mutations.

And, too, we've reached the the end of the rope in terms of how we've evolved to this point. Our evolutionary strategy, increasing cranial size to accommodate ever bigger brains, has lead us to a place in which childbirth is dangerous and inordinately painful. Our heads literally can't grow any bigger. Hence we must learn how to use what's inside our freakishly huge skulls. Something's got to give!

I've been thinking about this for awhile now, noticing how ripe the environment is for change, looking for signs of an evolutionary shift.

Technology is the mountain range rising up, providing we homo sapiens a step-up to the change. The internet is, in its own way, a neural network. Through blogging, FB, twitter, even old fashioned email, a fairly hefty percentage of the seven billion of us on planet Earth are discovering ways to interconnect, to cooperate with each other in brand new ways. All together, through the internet, we are forming networks that have never existed before. This interconnection is physically changing our brains, also the way we think.

Any evolutionary leap brings with it chaos, at least initially. I see the fallout every day, don't you? Attention Deficit Disorder, for instance, did not exist when I was growing up. There was no such thing as multi-tasking. No one drove a car while texting or surfed the internet. There were no remotes, and only three channels on TV. To change the channel, you had to stand up, walk to the TV and manually turn the knob. Two generations prior to mine, there were no cars, no electric lights, phones or travel by air. Think about it.

When I was growing up, very few Americans did yoga or T'ai Chi or meditated. These practices, that steady the attention and help people feel centered and grounded, are an important anchor, a counterbalance, to the chaos of change.

It's happening fast!

“I’m certain that rapid evolution occurs. We just don’t know to look for it,” --evolutionary biologist Michael Travisano

Open your eyes, Dr. Travisano, and behold the iphone, an almost miraculous tool with which to further evolution. This device has become, for many of us, an extension of the body. I'm fascinated and thrilled, knowing that in my brain, there is a map that includes the iphone as part of my body/mind. I'm not at all embarrassed to admit it. Learn the technology, people! It will help us move forward, out of the era of fallout and chaos, towards what lies ahead.

Is what comes next the singularity? I have no idea, but if crazy dudes like Raymond Kurzweil are correct, it will behoove us all to learn the technology now, before it's incorporated into the body. Work with the algorhythms of Facebook, Pandora radio and such. Get inside the way these things work. It can only help.

Go ahead and multitask - safely, please! - because that practice creates neural networks of great complexity. Also, please meditate - you MUST meditate, actually. You must. Do yoga or take up a martial art; find a way to practice steadying your attention between bouts of multi-tasking. Stretch your mind in ways you've never stretched it before. Otherwise, the world will only become more bewildering to you. Eventually, those who resist this leap will die out, like the poor Neanderthals, the dodo, and all other species who could not, for one reason or another, adapt.

We can't keep doing what we've been doing. If we persist, it will be the end of us all. C'mon, y'all. It's happening, right now. Jump in with both feet, hey? Oh yeah.

We were so idealistic in the 70s - and may I say it straightaway? - dorky as all get out. But we saw something coming, we did.

How happy?

2012-01-24T12:48:00.000-05:00

Revelations about happiness, pt. 2

2012-01-23T08:29:00.007-05:00

I'm almost halfway through the Track Your Happiness study. The process continues to provide one revelation after another. I am a devoted naval gazer, and still, every day my eyes are opened to patterns and habits I had no idea existed.

My participation involves keeping an eye on the iphone (never a problem for me). Three times a day, at random, a text arrives with a link to a short survey. The questions are simple, but provocative. Almost always the first question is a slider from "very bad" to "very good." The question is, "How good do you feel right now?" It's a vague question, oh yeah. I have to stop, scan my body, mind and heart, I have to ask myself how good I feel at that second. When I meditate and pray in the morning, I do this sort of scan, after which I forget to check in with myself for the rest of the day. It is so interesting.

One of things I've learned is that I'm happier indoors than outdoors. This may be true only because we're in the middle of a dark, cold, gray winter weather pattern. But I would never have guessed that since I value spending time outside so deeply. Values and reality can clash. Wow.

Part of what the researchers are trying to correlate is the relationship between happiness and what is now called "flow" - the state of being fully present, focused and in the moment. The survey asks how focused I was on whatever I was doing just before the text arrived. If I'm not fully focused (most of the time), the survey will ask if my extraneous thoughts had to do with judgments about myself. The possible answers include "no," "yes, positively," "yes, neutrally," and "yes, negatively."

I am such a self-scolder! Almost always I must answer that I'm negatively judging myself. Even when I'm doing something very positive, productive or fun, I'm simultaneously waving a finger at myself because it's not good enough or I should be doing something else. Good lord.

It's a very low level sort of thing, which must account for why I have not noticed this before. Ten years on the couch in therapy helped me turn down the volume, but it's still there, ongoing at all times. Dear friends mention often that my self esteem is not up to snuff, but I haven't listened to them because I'm mostly happy, especially compared to when I was younger. I see now that I must unhinge this thought pattern, because life is short! What am I waiting for?

Who knows what else I'll discover?

Here's the link to the Track Your Happiness site. It only works on iphones. If you don't have an iphone, for heaven's sake, get one. It opens doors and windows to experiences you can't get any other way. Here's a link to my original post about the study.

Have a happy day! Shalom.

Kaddish

2012-01-22T08:15:00.006-05:00

It was many years ago that a client I'll call S. died from breast cancer. She was 32 years old. Yes it was tragic, though she had suffered from the disease for four years. By the time she passed, she was ready. She was a soldier as is her husband. They had no kids, so they didn't have to contend with that. They were practical people. It was sad and it was a relief.

Here on Capitol Hill we are rallying around a family dealing with the imminent passing of their 28 year old daughter from a cancer so aggressive and rare, no one from Sloan Kettering to NIH has had a clue how to treat it. They tried every concoction of toxic chemo, all of which made this young woman miserable. Nothing slowed the growth of the cancer. The lesions are everywhere, growing exponentially.

She was diagnosed in September 2011. She's at home at last this weekend, away from the hospital setting. Home hospice has been set up. Now the family waits. It's the worst part.

This family has a lot of support from neighbors and friends, also from their spiritual community. Still, and of course, the parents are a wreck. I'm sending them a steady stream of Reiki, holding them in my heart of hearts.

In a situation like this it's hard to know what to pray for. I think it's more about giving it up, turning it over, surrendering to a greater wisdom, than asking for a particular outcome. Actually it's probably always better to surrender to a greater wisdom when praying. Yeah.

Like everyone else in the community, I'm waiting, thinking about the family, feeling grateful for my good health and well being, appreciating in ways I'm not normally able, how precious and beautiful life is.

Thanks for allowing me to share this sad news. Shalom.

Dance of the Lizard Brains

2012-01-21T10:56:00.006-05:00

Contemplating the reasons why unrequited and star-crossed love is more compelling (in movies and books at least) than "live happily ever after" love, brings me back to a thought I often entertain: most, if not virtually all of our behavior is linked in some way to instinct.

The life force is very influential! That force powers survival and procreation of the species on a personal as well as tribal level. Because we can't help but create stories about everything - it's how we're built - of course the story of consummation would loom large in our psyches. The story of how we consummate love is more interesting than the settle-down-and-live-happily-ever part. Once a baby is conceived, the instinct to procreate has been satisfied. Without instinct driving the storytelling we're always engaged in, interest drops off.

We aren't the only species to do the mating dance; in fact I don't know of any species that doesn't have some form of mating ritual. With these dances, back and forth, closer then further away, fighting, making up, making love, we honor the life force in all its majesty.

Hence in fact the drama of star crossed love is a sacred enactment of one of our most deeply seated instincts. We make these stories fantastic, complex, heart warming or wrenching, even funny, but the behavior from where these stories arises comes from the brain stem, not the fancy machinations of the frontal lobes.

It's interesting to think about.

Today in DC is icy, bitter. The lizard brainstem inside my big ole skull is directing me to stay safe. What that looks like from the vantage point of my storyteller cerebral cortex is a day mostly indoors, drinking tea and listening to music. In so doing I serve the will to survive by staying safe and warm.

I'm good with that! Shalom.

What's not to love?

2012-01-19T07:49:00.004-05:00

At last, it seems, winter has settled in and on the swampy landscape of Washington DC. It was not quite 20 F. outside this morning when I checked the thermometer at 7:00 a.m. I turn the heat down before I go to bed at night, which means by the time I rise, the chateau has cooled to about 60 F., but this morning it was a seriously chilly 55 F. according to the indoor thermometer. Brrrrrrrrr!! Fortunately the radiant heat works quickly in this small space. In the meantime, my cup of hot coffee visibly steamed and of course tasted even better than usual.

Because I'm lucky enough to live indoors, I enjoy the few very cold days of a typical DC winter. A hard freeze clears the insects and sets the bulb flowers. Energetically a hard freeze is cleansing. Cold brings stillness and quiet; the birds and squirrels tuck themselves away, and so do the humans for the most part. We go on about our business of course, but instead of strolling, gathering, and chatting, I see my fellow Washingtonians dashing to their cars, hunkering down within the hoods of their parkas while they wait for the bus, walking fast and furious to the subway stations.

Of course I'll get out there for awhile today. I'll be bundled up and it's likely I'll be walking more briskly than usual, but I'll be smiling, yes indeed.

Brother Sun is a shiny shade of white today, the sky is a dainty blue. The day calls! I love winter!

Revelations about happiness

2012-01-18T08:14:00.005-05:00

Just two days into the happiness project and already I've learned so many things. One is that being able to focus on the task at hand greatly increases my enjoyment, whether I'm cleaning house or taking a walk. It's not the activity or where I am, it's how much I'm able to be present that counts most. Even daydreaming about fun stuff while doing something else decreases my happiness. No wonder I meditate! Also, no wonder I love my work so much. When doing massage, I can't get distracted, I must be totally focused on my client. Very cool to know its the ability to focus as much as the work itself that is rewarding.

I'm wondering about my experience with NaNoWriMo, how obsessed I was, how totally focused I was on the writing. Was I happy? Because I've also learned that after sitting in front of the laptop, I am in general very physically uncomfortable. During November I was in front of the computer a lot. I don't remember feeling physically stiff but i must surely have been! It's interesting to think about.

Two of my happiest mundane activities are shopping for food and cooking, both of which I did yesterday. If that's the only thing I got out of my marriage, well then, ok!

Do these conditions apply to everyone? I wonder because I know folks who can focus for hours on their work, but have no clue how to relax. I always thought that was a problem, but maybe I'm wrong about that. Hmmmm.

Have a happy day today, yes? I say yes. Shalom.

Smile

2012-01-17T07:57:00.003-05:00

I recently signed up with Track Your Happiness. That means I'm now an official participant in the Harvard Happiness Study. If you don't know about the study, check out this story from the Atlantic Magazine. Fascinating stuff, and so American, isn't it? Talk about the right to pursue happiness! Oh Thomas Jeff, are you smiling at us? Ha.

Three generations of Harvard researchers have worked relentlessly to understand the mysteries of happiness. I find this encouraging and kind of funny. The history of the project is interesting. In the 30s and 40s when the project began, they only studied the lives of successful white men - of course! Sometime during the 60s or 70s it occurred to the second generation of researchers to expand the focus, include a variety of people. Now the new generation of scholars is conducting study through an app for the iphone, thereby including virtually everyone, well, anyone who has an iphone. The study of happiness has adapted to the Age of Aquarius. I love it!

One unexpected benefit of joining the study is that the prompts and mini-surveys I receive every day make me actually stop to think about what I'm doing at that exact moment, whether that activity/thought form/behavior is satisfying. I'm asked to notice whether or not I'm happy to be engaged in my regular life. I usually attach happiness to either special events, like a vacation or special dinner date, or in general. Am i happy in general these days? Yes! But it's interesting to look at the mundane events - do the small moments of this or that make me happy?

I'm finding out a lot about what does and doesn't add to my happiness. Really cool! If you have an iphone, click on the first link above and join. If you don't have an iphone yet, I highly recommend you get one as soon as possible.

Life is short. Why not?

The Butterfly Effect

2012-01-16T08:10:00.015-05:00

I'm continually bewildered by the popularity of books like "The Secret" and a hundred others in which the author asserts (maybe even believes?) that the only thing you have to do in order to change your life is to imagine what you want. Visualize your perfect life, et voila! - everything you desire will manifest. I mean, really, who believes it's that simple? If that were true, wouldn't everyone have the perfect life? For heaven's sake. The worst twist this line of non-logic takes is when it blames anyone who doesn't have the perfect life for not visualizing clearly enough. As if the starving kid in rural India created her situation. Talk about mean spirited!

On the other hand, what we think, how we behave and what we actually do in the world has impact. Like the butterfly effect, a careless word spoken in haste can cause all kinds of trouble. An act of kindness can radiate good vibes, yep. Every decision we make - changing jobs, partners, moving to a new house or a new city, affects the people, animals, and landscapes surrounding us.

The way we think, what we think, matters. There's a good reason placebos are effective; the mind is powerful. That saying, Be careful what you wish for, is well worth heeding. But the mind isn't ALL powerful. Hey?

Nothing about the way life unfolds is simple. I would like to sit down with Abraham Hicks, for instance, or with the author of "The Promise" (whose name I can't remember) to ask what they think happens when everyone's slightly or extremely different visualizations collide in the matrix of interconnection among all beings. Whose dream prevails? Which visualization has the right of way?

I may not be the superhero of my destiny, but I am the central character of my life story. Trying to be mindful, I dance the lead in my personal myth, sometimes gracefully, other times not so much. When I trip and fall, I try not to blame myself for not visualizing clearly, or others - unless they intentionally threw a banana peel on the path in front of me. My goal, as I pick myself up, is to learn something.

I learned a lot during the past few days. I am again standing upright, and I believe I might have come out of this a little bit smarter. This is a good thing!

Happy Monday. Shalom.

Separation of Church and State, as it were

2012-01-15T10:36:00.007-05:00

I live in a small village inside a large city. In our village of Capitol Hill, many of us embody several roles, i.e. neighbor, client, doctor, friend, business owner. We have professional personas, private personas, business personas ... it can get tricky in ways that don't exist in more anonymous locations where folks are known mostly in one role or another.

I say I am a massage therapist, but the truth is that no one comes to see me more than once who is looking strictly for massage. People who become ongoing clients are looking for something more complicated. They come for spiritual counseling, energy work AND bodywork. They come for healing. This is my best thing, sitting with the things people tell me (you would not believe what people say before they get on the table!), dealing with the details of their illnesses, injuries, with the revelations that come to them when they're on the table. Just plain bodywork, without the counseling, listening, encouragement and energy work, would be intimate - as bodywork always is - yet I believe the sessions would be unremarkable.

May I say before I continue that Mama Gaia Reya, the name for my role as healer, is a beautiful experience for me as well. I am encouraging, positive, a careful listener. I implore my clients and students to forgive themselves and others, I take the high road. Ah, Mama Gaia Reya is really something!

Likewise here and on my other blog, what I decide to publish is a careful selection, including today's post, should say. People tend to say, "Reya I can't believe how you say EVERYTHING on your blog." I've said it before, let me say it again, I do NOT say everything! I am NOT saying everything today. God no way! I have a way of sounding personal when in fact my deepest secrets and truths are well hidden behind a smoke screen of theories, contemplations and philosophical discourses. I do that on purpose.

The regular, everyday me can be officious (ask my sisters), bossy, a terrible listener, judgmental, high-fallutin', pretentious, argumentative and sometimes just plain rude or even mean! I know some bloggers love being snarky on their blogs. I could be, trust me. But I'd rather put a different quality out onto the network. I try not to cultivate the parts of myself that aren't very nice, but they are there, of course. Makes sense, right?

No matter how often my clients and students say they understand this reality, somehow, somewhere inside, they don't believe it. When I've attempted to become friends with people who came to me originally to study the Art, or for healing, it always ends in disaster when I relax and begin to relate to them from my wholeness rather than a selected role. At that moment, I'm feeling enough trust in the other person to reveal my less than noble personality traits. It's always a big mistake. They are so SHOCKED to find out how deeply flawed I really am. And then things go downhill fast, next thing you know they are no longer coming for bodywork, AND they hate me. It is not pleasant for either of us, I can assure you. Holy cow.

Brother Eagle tells me I do a great disservice to my students and clients by trying to become their friends. This morning, I am at last seeing the wisdom of this boundary. Oh Brother Eagle, you are so wise! Thank you for continually repeating this message to me. At last, I've got it! Clean boundaries are healthy. I'm going to clean up my act in this area of my life at last. I will be proud in a healthy way. Thank you!

And to the rest of you, thank you for listening!

Brain Stew

2012-01-14T07:40:00.004-05:00

I'm standing on a Connecticut Avenue bridge looking out over Rock Creek Park near the zoo. Creepy!

I've got a bunch of great new photos to post, but too much to say, all of which is not yet speech ripe. Here's a list of things I have nothing smart to say about ... yet.

1. I am, and am not, the superhero of my personal myth cycle. (The name of this half-formed post is "The Butterfly Effect.")

2. I'm thinking about pride as Goldilocks would address that quality; not too proud, but not deflated either. In particular I'm realizing that self-confidence (NOT arrogance) involves understanding that what I say and do has an impact.

3. When I cook, I'm happy. So my marriage wasn't actually a total wash.

4. I re-arranged the furniture in my bedroom this week, after which the feng shui within and without shifted. An old friend I've known forever started flirting with me (so weird! I'm sure this phase will pass.) Also, suddenly half and half tastes strange in my morning coffee. WTF is that all about?

5. People come and go from the saga of my life. Thinking about people who were, at one time, close friends until suddenly, from out of the nowhere (or so it seems to me) they are beamed out of my saga. Someone has recently removed herself from the saga. I'm feeling sad and perplexed about it and even though she wishes to blame me, it's very clear that she created the crisis that broke the connection. I've experienced this before; I will accept it eventually but it's so weird.

I could go on, but you get the idea. I watch the thoughts whirling around my head but for some reason I can't grasp them, I can't get them inside a cage of words. Not yet. C'est la vie!

Appreciation for my teachers

2012-01-12T08:28:00.006-05:00

I love delicious serendipities. For instance yesterday, one of the group of people I usually refer to as "my very great teachers" just happened to tune in here. She read the last post about storytelling. It's just perfect because she is the great teacher who introduced me to the idea of sacred drama in the first place, many years ago. She doesn't always come to see what I've written as she is a university professor, mom, married person and keeper of Very Energetic Dogs, so she really hasn't a lot of spare time. Still, something inspired her to come have a look. That makes me smile.

Great teachers are rare; I'm talking about the people who know what they're talking about, have a certain flair for dramatic presentation and some kind of odd, nerdish charisma that creates an atmosphere in which students actually want to pay attention. Really great teachers become excited when they see lightbulbs above their students' heads. They are able to magnify their excitement until it fills the room.

Today I'm wondering about the people who eschew good teachers, who want to learn everything themselves (for reasons I can't comprehend - is it necessary to reinvent the wheel?). Likewise I'm wondering about those whose arrogance prevents them from admitting how wonderful it is to be a student. What is up with that? I don't get it, but I wouldn't, would I?

I am in awe of my great teachers, all of them. That includes Jake, who was a formidable teacher in so many ways, the human teachers from whom I've learned so much, also my spirit guides who never steer me in the wrong direction (though sometimes I don't listen to them) and the weather, which always explains everything. For instance, today it's sunny and sparkling after a heavy rain last night. The high today will be close to 60. You'd better believe I'll be out there, walking around, taking pictures - and no doubt learning something or another. Oh yeah.

In the meantime, here is one of my favorite poems. I post it regularly here because it is absolutely true. Have a wonderful Thursday. Shalom.

GRATITUDE TO OLD TEACHERS

When we stride or stroll across the frozen lake,
We place our feet where they have never been.
We walk upon the unwalked. But we are uneasy.
Who is down there but our old teachers?

Water that once could take no human weight-
We were students then - holds up our feet,
And goes on ahead of us for a mile.
Beneath us the teachers, and around us the stillness.

--Robert Bly

What's the story?

2012-01-10T08:01:00.012-05:00

We had some snow yesterday for the first time this winter. It's all gone today.

Besides being a social, optimistic, audacious, creative, ambitious species, we homo sapiens are quintessential story tellers. In fact, a big part of what the brain does is interpret and shape incoming information so as to create the story of "reality." Yeah, reality is nothing more than a story our little buddy the hippocampus tells us.

We enact the stories we tell ourselves with great drama and great flair. All of life's a stage on which we play out the ancient myths, generation after generation. Choose any myth based on the archetype of the hero's journey, from the Odyssey to the Quest for the Grail, to the movies about superheros - all these stories are artful creations that describe the experience of transformation. Becoming (another way to think about it) is the essential "truth" of life lived in a human body. Who among us hasn't, at one time or another, had to slay a dragon, capture the golden fleece, behead the gorgon, travel to faraway lands and places, face hardship and fear, and finally endure a rite of passage in order to become more fully realized? Coming of age, graduations, marriage, pursuits of spirit and body, as well as climbing the ladder at work, all require valour, courage, and persistence. To prevail on planet birth, you must be a hero, hence the stories of derring do.

The hero's journey arises from the story of birth, told from the perspective of the baby. It is the foundational event that becomes the foundational myth describing the way our lives unfold in ever changing environments. We re-enact that myth countless times and in many arenas during the span of our lifetimes.

We are profoundly ingenius. Even at night we tell ourselves stories in dreamland. If we weren't storytellers, what would "reality" look like? I guess I'll never know which is fine by me!

Yesterday I told a friend that if life were a movie (and oh my it surely is), then my marriage was a rather prolonged intermission. She laughed, but then said I was incorrect to assert I gave my husband the best years of my life because this period of time, right now, right here in the chateau on a beautiful street in a magnificent city - THESE are the best years of my life. Oh yeah, she is spot on!

That's my story and I'm sticking to it! Shalom.

Tonka twitched and sniffed in his sleep, telling himself a story of canine heroism, no doubt!

I should always listen to my sisters

2012-01-08T07:53:00.007-05:00

“Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” ― C.G. Jung

Uncle Carl said so many wise things - wow. The problem with the above is that it's not possible to make the unconscious conscious, not all of it, not even most of it. Just as the universe is made mostly of dark matter and space, so are we mostly unconscious. In fact part of the job description of consciousness is to block out huge swaths of what we perceive and experience. If we were consciously aware of everything we receive through the six senses, if we were conscious of everything that resides in the shadows of ourselves, we'd be reduced to slack-jawed, wide-eyed, drooling beings, unable to do much more than say Oh wow all the time. Thank god for our little buddy the hippocampus, choosing what and what not to notice. Our species would be long gone from planet earth except for it.

We can't make everything conscious, hence there is fate. It's interesting to think about.

My great teachers always said that the key to mastery has nothing to do with how much psychic information a person has access to, it's all in choosing what merits one's attention, because really I could stand outside, gazing at the sky, taking in the shapes, listening to the whispers of Brother Wind all day and night, no problem. But would that help set me in the direction of my soul's purpose? Sometimes, yes, other times, a cigar is just a cigar and a cloud shape is just a cloud shape.

When I've wandered afield, away from the river of my destiny, my emotional responses act as an internal alert system. When something feels off, I can then, with great intention, begin to work my way back to a place in which I'm best able to embody my soul's purpose. Though it would be gratifying to believe my marriage was an important part of my destiny, in my heart of hearts I am at last admitting it was just a big ole waste of time. It felt wrong from the get-go. It did not nourish my heart, body or spirit, did not further my soul's evolution. Can I say it here and then let go once and for all? I gave that man the best years of my life! Ha.

“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.” ― C.G. Jung

Yeah. There was no reaction, no transformation. Nope.

Many thanks to all who hung in here the last few days as I wrote about my failed marriage. All that talk of destiny was my way of sounding high minded, but really it was navel gazing. I'm now accepting what my marriage was - and wasn't. I feel at last I can put that chapter of my life back on the bookcase where those memories can gather dust into perpetuity. It no longer merits my attention. Was it boring? Probably. Thanks for listening and happy Sunday. Shalom.

“We cannot change anything unless we accept it.”
― C.G. Jung

It's complicated!

2012-01-06T10:02:00.003-05:00

I'm having so much fun thinking about destiny, reflecting on various eras in life, thinking about what has, also what has NOT, furthered my process of becoming authentic. Thanks for joining me!

"Why am I here?" is a question a whole swack of smart people have asked themselves at one time or another. We are a curious species; it's no wonder that we wonder about it.

For some, there is a predetermined path laid out before them at birth, one from which they couldn't stray no matter what choices they make. For people who believe that what happens is exactly what was supposed to, there is no regret. How could a person feel regretful if it's all part of the greater plan? In a way, that kind of world view is very liberating. Do whatever the hell you want - it's all part of the Plan.

There are many for whom the idea of destiny does not strike a chord. For them, life on earth is random and unstructured. In a sense these people's values are similar to the ones who believe in predetermined fate. Do whatever you want because there is no master plan or even a river in which to get into the flow.

Not to say that either the fatalistic people or those who have no link with destiny are careless, no way! I know a lot of people I love and respect who try to make the best choices they can in order to live a happier life. There's nothing wrong with that!

Then there are those of us who subscribe to the river of destiny concept - I am among that crowd, obviously. Yes there are certain aspects of life that are indeed set in stone, or maybe I should say, set in bone. Plant an acorn, but please do not hope or expect that an apple tree will grow from that seed. It ain't gonna happen! Jing ancestry is pretty concrete. And yet there's so much about life that is unformed until we put our minds and opposable thumbs to work on it. According to my cosmology, destiny requires our participation.

I work in partnership with my scarce jing ancestry by trying to take care of my health, by strengthening my relationship with my family as best I can. Likewise I try to listen to my ancestors of spirit and blood, I have a very engaged relationship with God, my beloved spirit and animal guides, my friends in the mesosphere, the mighty dead, the weather, seasons, and the behavior of the people around me. All of these relationships guide me towards my soul's purpose, whether or not the way life unfolds is rational.

Right before I got married, my sister begged me not to go through with it. I believe she was speaking not only from her own great wisdom and love for me, but also for the kind influences who wished for my happiness and evolution. But did I listen? Hell no!!

Some days I wonder what message is being put before me that I, for one reason or another, cannot perceive. I try so hard, I do, but I have often missed the mark. It's OK, I'm a human, bound to make mistakes, yes? I say yes.

When I took this picture, I thought it was an owl face in the clouds, but today it looks like a cat face.

I did not marry well

2012-01-05T09:42:00.008-05:00

When I say my marriage was not part of the river of my destiny, I usually fail to mention that during those years I had a great many experiences I would otherwise have missed. With my ex-husband I traveled around the world - literally. That's something I would never have done otherwise, I'm quite sure.

Maybe, if I hadn't been married to my ex, I would never have learned to cook, something he encouraged me to try. I love cooking, entertaining and feeding people. Learning to cook was and has been a wonderful, marvelous, deeply enjoyable experience. Cooking is fantastic, I LOVE cooking, but is cooking part of my destiny? No it is decidedly not. Learning to cook was a side-effect of my marriage, a lovely side-effect, should say.

What do I mean when I say my marriage was an off-ramp that side tracked my quest? My marriage was "wrong," ill-fitting, like a barrier I had to find my way around rather than a situation in which my ex and I could evolve and become better suited to life's exingencies. For instance, my ex discouraged me from going to massage school. He said the idea of me as a successful bodyworker was inconceivable. OK, did I have to listen to him? I guess not, but I did take his word quite seriously. He was a smart, creative man and I trusted his opinions.

Also he was staunchly opposed to getting a dog. What he said was that if I got one, he would have nothing to do with feeding, walking or caring for the animal. So I didn't get a dog. After we divorced he adopted a shelter dog who looked so much like Jake it was weird. Who knows what THAT was all about?

It was while I was married that I began to study shamanism in earnest - with no encouragement from my ex at all. He thought I should study Buddhism. He had nothing kind to say about my teachers, dismissed my budding spirituality as total crap, refused to allow me to build an altar in our house. Should I have fought for the altar? Who knows?

It's fair to say that my ex couldn't in any way perceive my talents, my potential. He was incapable of encouraging me to do the very things that have helped me become authentic. He was opposed to all the ways in which I've become whole, happy and fulfilled in my life. My role in all that was to take him so seriously, to trust his view more than what I wished for in my heart of hearts. I'll own that bit, for sure.

I guess it could be argued that my ex was a kind of guardian at the gate, someone I could have/should have challenged, or maybe it wasn't time yet for me to find my authentic destiny. I guess, maybe I was meant to sit around twiddling my thumbs for the better part of ten years. Looking back on it, it's hard not see my marriage as a complete waste of time.

My ex is not a bad person, was not a bad person, only blind to the real me, as was I.

I think of him now like the crazy blind man guarding the bridge in Monty Python's The Holy Grail. Just as with that character, he was jettisoned from my life when I finally questioned his opinions.

I row, row, row my boat these days, gently down the stream of my destiny, single and grateful.

Shalom.

Steady as she goes?

2012-01-04T08:14:00.007-05:00

What is your destiny? Do you believe in it? According to my cosmology, destiny is co-created, an ongoing, complicated performance art project, a situation in which my ancestors of blood, spirit and karma play a significant part, also the stars and planets, God (such as that force guides everything more or less) and of course me and my puny human power of free choice (only puny in comparison to the vast forces that shape "reality.")

The path of destiny creates a magnetic tug that pulls me in the direction of its fulfillment. I am drawn towards the landscapes, the work, the people and the situations necessary for its manifestation in this lifetime. Destiny is a river, one of many rivers flowing through the ocean of energy in which we live out our lives on planet earth. Anytime I find myself row, row, rowing my boat gently down the river of destiny, all feels "right" somehow, even when shit happens, as they say. Do you know what I'm talking about?

The path or river of destiny is jammed with crossroads, intersections and off ramps, making possible the use of free will, though when I stray from the path laid out before me, turn right instead of left, for instance, I know it immediately. Suddenly I feel off, I feel wrong. I felt that wrongness throughout my marriage, for instance. Oh yeah.

Earlier in life it was harder to sense, but as I grow older the feeling of offness is much more potent, far more insistent. One of my teachers used to say that the job of the Fates is to guide us back to the river of destiny. Sometimes that guidance is gentle, sometimes not so much! I remember my divorce. Oy vey!

I'm thinking about it today because the Sufi acupuncturist was describing the attributes of Zong Qi yesterday - a gathering of ancestral chi in the chest. He told me about the unfolding of familial jing, the life force energy we literally inherit, the code of DNA that determines hair color and nearsightedness, for instance, also the physical ailments that are characteristic in families. In my family that would include all manner of respiratory stuff: allergies, asthma, colds, etc.

He also spoke of shen, the spirit, how that ethereal river is also part of our inheritance. Those of us who never exactly fit into our families perhaps follow the path of shen inheritance a bit more strongly than the path of jing inheritance. We dance in shamanic alignment with the resonance of Zong Qi when making choices as opposed to sticking with the pattern of inherited jing. It's interesting to think about.

A major component of my destiny involves working with people undergoing trauma. For no logical reason, I am great with women during labor and delivery. How can that be true since I never had children of my own? Don't ask me! I'm also good with very ill people, those facing imminent death, as well as with people following a huge loss, i.e. the death of a beloved.

I am honored to understand this piece of my destiny, and bewildered by it as well. At one time in my life, the situations I'm destined to witness scared the bejesus out of me. That I can now sit with folks experiencing such powerful emotions and physical states is astonishing.

Destiny is incomprehensible! I do my best to keep my hands on the steering wheel, get out of the exit only lanes when possible, keep my eyes on the prize. It seems like the best course of action, but do I understand? No I do not! The older I get, the less I know, that's for sure!

2012-01-03T12:24:00.008-05:00

As if in shamanic alignment with the secular new year, winter blew cold and sharp into Washington DC last night. Oh man is it cold!

Of course it's high time for winter to arrive. We had temperatures up into the 60s all the way through New Year's Day. I'm not complaining, simply noticing how different 2012 feels from the beneficent, wonderful 2011.

I know - everybody had a bad year - except me, apparently. My sister was saying the other day that even the "good" things in 2011 were hard-won, destructive or appalling - such as the pics of Gaddafi's body in a meat locker at a shopping center. Yeah.

Good point, but 2011 was one of the best years of my life. I took a few dips but only for short moments. I'm feeling a bit wistful that its over, I admit.

I remember the years under Clinton when the U.S. was happy and prosperous. We had a huge national surplus, for instance - hard to imagine after the many disasters of the Bush years. When Clinton was president, those were the good old days - except for me. I struggled through the 90s in every way you can imagine: financially, emotionally, spiritually and physically.

Am I really that much of a contrarian? If so, bloody hell. Should I wish for another year like 2011? You tell me!

Go forth

2012-01-02T08:34:00.002-05:00

I still can not believe this is the year 2012. Holy cow. Time surely does fly.

I made a few resolutions, several of which involve getting out of the chateau more. It's so cozy and comfy here, easy to hang out - too easy. Way too easy. Yesterday I gave myself the gift of a three hour walk after which I felt refreshed and renewed. Though i still walk every day, I haven't had enough outdoor time lately. I'm reminded this morning of the benefits of communion with Father Sky, the flight pattern of birds, feeling the wind. I took at least a million pictures as I wandered. it was glorious. Later, at a "big-ass buffet" a friend hosted, everyone was telling me I looked young and fresh. It was the walk, I tell you. Walking is good for me.

Another resolution in the same vein is to travel a bit this year. I hate traveling and yes I know I'm supposed to LOVE traveling. I hate airports, airplanes. I even hate airplane jargon. Stow your personal belongings where the sun don't shine, please. I dislike living out of a suitcase, get terrible jet lag so I don't sleep, and my stomach generally hurts from the moment I leave town until I'm home again. Unfamiliar settings are overwhelming, having to engage socially is always taxing.

Yeah I am a serious deadbeat when it comes to travel but I'm feeling a need to put my feet on the crazy landscape of the west coast. I want to see friends and family I haven't seen in awhile. I'm determined to get the hell outta Dodge this year.

What will you do in 2012? It's a clean slate, the sky's the limit! Onwards and upwards, yes?

Improvisation is a skill worth cultivating. ~Jeremy Taylor

2012-01-01T08:41:00.005-05:00

Friends at the Matchbox bar asked me to make some predictions for the new year since I am a self-proclaimed psychic. This was last night before I'd had any champagne, I should say. I did try to see around a corner in time, I squinted and strained my third eye, trying so hard to peer through the swirling, pearly veil of time. I saw shapes and colors, possibilities dancing around, but everything was in flux, blurry and incomprehensible.

I am psychic but that talent applies only in present tense. I believe the future is co-created moment to moment, hence there's no way to see what's going to happen. A year ago I did not see myself working from the chateau, not ever, and yet it came to pass. That move is the smartest decision I've ever made, by the way, but did I see it coming? I did not. Did I "see" the Arab spring, the Occupy movement? Nope. Had no idea it would be such a tumultuous year.

If life were predictable, what fun would that be? Also, i imagine that approaching more difficult years, the ability to predict would only create a sense of dread. That could not possibly help anyone, hey? I prefer an unshaped future, thank you very much.

2011 was one of the best years of my life, but it's all over now. Onwards and upwards to 2012. May it be a banner year for you and yours. Shalom.

This woman gives psychic readings at Eastern Market every weekend. She is far more confidant than I am, for sure!

tick tock - if only it was that simple!

2011-12-31T08:44:00.004-05:00

New Year's Eve at last! But now it seems too soon after a week that felt as if it would go on into perpetuity. How funny. It's almost 9:00 a.m. - what have I been up to since I woke at 6:00? The day is speeding past already, a clear sign that the spiral of the year changed direction and is now almost completely unwound.

When I was a kid I often thought about the year 2000. When I did the math, realizing I would be 47 was terribly disappointing. In my mind that was so old, I imagined I wouldn't even have the energy to celebrate. Ha!

I never thought beyond Y2K, never. 2012? Holy cow.

Even the people who ranted and raved about the Mayan calendar forecasting the end of the earth on December 21, 2012 have backed away from that theory, possibly because people who actually understand the complicated Mayan calendar have pointed out how that dire conclusion is just silly. I wonder if it's a relief to those who were so into the idea of doomsday. I guess I'll never know.

It's not just the Mayans who created a calendar with several layers to accommodate, more or less, the slippery nature of linear time. We, too, have multiple calendars including one that goes on forever. I'm talking about the seven day week that never stops, not for new years or new decades or new centuries, not for landmark events of any kind. Nope, it's SundayMondayTuesdayWednesdayThursdayFridaySaturday forever and ever. Except in Samoa where they jumped the international date line this year. They went from Thursday to Saturday, just like that. Snap!

It must have felt very weird. We adjust our 24 hour clocks occasionally and our 365 day solar year every four years in one fell swoop, by adding a day to February, but the seven day week is uninterruptable. Should say almost uninterruptable. That makes our time keeping as complex as that of the Mayans.

Funny, trying to get a grip on time, hey? The truth is, time has a grip on us, no matter what our atomic clocks and electronic calendars synched in the cloud tell us. Father Time, we are your children. Indeed.

Happiest new year to all including those who are already a part of year 2012. Cheers!

Good to be here

2011-12-30T08:56:00.005-05:00

It's nice to be sane, well such as I am what with spirit guides, past lives and such. Yes I am friends with the noctilucent cloud people and also believe the planets (including Mama Gaia) are sentient beings. I could go on except the point of this post is to impress upon you how much closer to sane I am than I once was. Wish me good luck with that!

They called me Ruby and I was hell-bent for leather, whatever that means. Ruby was a par-Tay girl, oh my. I remember one particularly bad New Year's Day when I lived at Lake Tahoe in the early 1980s. I finally got out of bed around 4:00 p.m. Within 10 minutes I had spilled scalding hot tea all over my weary, hungover, dazed body. Ouch. It was not a great portent for the year to come. Probably it's not necessary to explain what kind of trouble I had gotten into the night before. That was then, before psychotherapy (10 years worth), before i learned to meditate, before encountering my great teachers. I had no skills, no tools with which to deal with my intrinsic mysticism, hence I was always overwhelmed. And then there were the hormones. Oh I do not miss raging hormones. Whoa.

A lot of people my age feel wistful when they reflect on their youth. I do not share that feeling. I look in the mirror these days, closing in on 59, and for the first time in my life recognize the face I see smiling back at me. I dig my aging face. I've been waiting to be this age all my life.

I look back on earlier eras of life in wonder and gratitude. I was crazy, sloppy and self-destructive, a chariot driver who didn't know how to get hold of the reins. I'm so glad I squeaked through that time and for all the blessings that followed, that continue to fall into my hands. Life is good and I am grateful.

Shalom.

It was a good year

2011-12-29T09:31:00.007-05:00

Imperial DC. Both pics are of the building in which the EPA is headquartered, 12th Street just south of Pennsylvania NW.

The last bit of twenty-eleven is swirling and spiraling, heading straight for the gutter. I think I hear a sucking sound like the one you hear when draining the bathwater out of the tub. It's the sound at the very end. Slurp!

I'm waiting for the spiral to reverse itself; that's my signal that the year is done. The shift in the flow of the year comes (to my mind) sometime on the 30th, usually late at night. Seems to take twenty-four hours plus for the last drops to drain away, swept out of the ocean of linear time by reversing spin at the last minute. Time speeds up at the end of the year.

Oh yeah. Have I mentioned that time/space is something I find palpable in my own slightly quirky way? I perceive it as an ocean in which we live and move, the place we park our bodies and beings during this life as a human. Perhaps it's arbitrary that at midnight on December 31, our secular year ends, but our minds make that moment real. Our thoughts have impact, especially when a bunch of us are thinking the same thing. It affects time/space. It does.

Navigating the ever shifting currents of the time/space ocean is a challenge every one of us faces while alive. By the way I'm not the first person to see it this way, though perhaps the language I use to describe what I sense is unique. Maybe not.

This last bit of twenty-eleven feels thick, rather slow. The non week between Christmas and New Year's Day, this year, seems to stretch out in both directions as it rolls inexoribly towards the finish.

At least it feels that way to me. Slog on, people. It'll all be over soon.

I believe it's Wednesday. Is that right?

2011-12-28T08:42:00.003-05:00

Brother Wind is blustery and bossy this morning, blowing hard. However since this is my last completely unencumbered day of 2011, I am determined to get out there, walk around, enjoy the empty streets and shops, take in some beauty.

The Hope diamond has been placed in a new gallery at the Natural History Museum. Maybe I'll go for a tete-a-tete with that huge, beautiful stone. I love the museum but avoid it at all times except during August and the non-week between Christmas and New Year's. At every other moment of the year, the place is screaming with people, either families with their kids or school groups, or both - as it should be, I think.

Maybe I'll go to the movies, or maybe sit in a cafe somewhere, eavesdrop on conversations ongoing at tables around me while I pretend to read The New Yorker. The good cheer that attends the gathering of families for the holidays wears thin after a few days of intense feasting, drinking, too many cookies and close proximity and interaction, hence people in cafes are either power struggling with family or venting to friends about whatever it was that bugged them most while family was in town. Perhaps it's evil of me to enjoy listening to these conversations.

Perhaps.

No matter, it's a day completely free and clear of commitments. There is spaciousness in the form of open, unstructured time all day today. I've got my camera and tech gloves, a warm coat and hat. So what am I waiting for? Ahhhhh. I am smiling.

Hope your day is lovely as we slog onwards through the non-week.

limbo

2011-12-27T07:59:00.006-05:00

Between Christmas and New Year's Day, tell me, what happens? Does anything happen? I'm guessing some folks are busy - the people who work in hospitals, retail, and service industries, for instance. I'm working this week, of course, though not a lot.

Even with the structure of my half-assed schedule, the days in this non-week flow one into the next. Is it Tuesday? Wednesday? I should pay attention since I'm going to go receive a massage on Thursday. I would hate to miss that!

The office people sometimes work this week in order to save vacation time. But I seriously doubt anything worthwhile is accomplished. As I remember from my career as an admin, mostly what happens is a lot of sitting around, going out for coffee, feasting on cookies and leftovers in the xerox room, skipping out early for prolonged happy hours.

Do offices still have xerox rooms? Who needs paper these days? Memos once printed and copied on paper are now emails, reports once printed and copied are now either powerpoint presentations or spreadsheets, shared on the ipad or laptop. Maybe in 21st century offices, there is no longer a standard xerox room with stacks of boxed pens and pads of paper.

I'm all for it! Save a tree.

This post is as rambling and vague as the non-week between Christmas and the new year. Maybe I should stop. OK.

Have a wonderful day, whatever day it is, yes? I say yes. Shalom.

Apres the Day

2011-12-26T07:45:00.008-05:00

Everything is closed on Christmas. Even the Smithsonian closes. It's the only day of the year the museums are closed. And people say the U.S. is not a Christian country. Is too!

I'm very happy for friends, family, neighbors and clients who enjoyed their Christmas, those who gathered with family, exchanged gifts, feasted, played board games or watched movies or got a little drunk together. Bless their hearts!

I'm equally happy this morning for those of us for whom Christmas is always a little bit weird, even when we try so hard to be OK with it. Those who celebrate always have a remedy for we who grew up outside the Christmas bubble. They invite us to join their families, which is very generous, or they suggest we create our own, parallel tradition (the reason Hanukkah has become kind of a big deal; it's a minor Jewish holiday, on steroids these days to compete with Christmas.)

They tell us Christmas isn't about religion, it's a holiday of love, generosity, and family. OK. From their point of view, they don't get - they really can't understand - why the day is awkward and uncomfortable for we of other traditions, or for those of us who chose not to marry, have children and such in this lifetime. I don't blame them! I salute their pure happiness about Christmas ...

and ...

I am dancing around my living room because it's December 26! Yay!!! Woot. Hurray! Yippeee. It's over. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. I had an OK day yesterday, I wasn't miserable, bitter or suffering, but because it was Christmas I was at loose ends as I always have been, trying to find a current in the flow of energy that works for me. As always I did not locate the current I was looking for. I expect I'm not the only person to feel relief when it's over.

I'll work for a little while today, get out at the end of the afternoon for a nice walk before the chilly rain arrives tomorrow. DC is very quiet between Christmas and New Year's, which is both spooky and wonderful.

Life is good and I am grateful. All is well. Onwards to 2012!

Spotted on Seventh Street yesterday afternoon. There's a baby in the stroller and the woman is pregnant. I wondered if she is the mother of all these kids. If so, well, wow!

There's no hole in my bucket - not yet!

2011-12-25T07:18:00.006-05:00

According to the urban dictionary, the term "Bucket List" comes from "kick the bucket," slang for dying. It's fun to think about what I might include on my bucket list. I especially love the idea that when I die, everything in my bucket will spill out, go back to the world, whether or not I attained, accomplished, or completed my list. Even wishes go back out into the world, once the bucket has been kicked, right?

I could get all abstract here, talk about the wishes that are part of my prayer routine every morning. I could describe the metta prayer of lovingkindness with which I wish for happiness, peace, good health and love for myself, my near and dears, people I have no connection with, and of course, all sentient beings. Those wishes are "spilled" into the world consciously and purposefully. I do it every day. They do not go in the bucket, though perhaps they should also be placed there. Who knows?

This morning is Christmas, a time when people who celebrate this festival exchange physical, material things: gifts. In order to dance in shamanic alignment with the energy of Christmas morning, I'm putting aside the purely abstract. Here's my bucket list. I admit it is abstract, but less so than metta prayer.

1. I want to see the northern lights from someplace very far north, like Iceland, or maybe while standing somewhere on the Canadian shield. That would be a dream come true.

2. You can't imagine how much I long to go to divinity school. I'd also like to go to cooking school. I am a lifelong student!

3. While I believe there is a book inside me waiting to be written, it's now clear that it is not a spy novel written within the span of one month! Ahem.

4. I would like to learn to ride a horse. They are such beautiful, powerful animals. I used to be afraid of them, but I think I could manage to be brave enough to learn how to at least go for a nice stroll on horseback. Wow.

5. I will turn 60 on 2/13 of 2013. My dream is to gather with women I love at a beautiful spa where we will receive all kinds of spa treatments. I imagine the group staying at a house where we can cook together, watch movies, play music and dance around inbetween spa treatments. Ideally this would take place somewhere on the Mendecino coast of California. What a way to turn 60, hey? Wow.

It isn't a long list, is it? Maybe more wishes will come to me; a bucket should be full, don't you think? Or ... maybe not, who knows?

What do you hope to do with the rest of your beautiful embodied life?

X mas

2011-12-24T08:17:00.003-05:00

Ok so the Christmas blues found me, but I'm not giving them a lot of energy. This is a good thing. They're there, I won't deny it. Neither will I feed them by focusing on them. Nope.

I'm going to work this morning. This afternoon I'll go out and about, walk around this beautiful city in the abundant, sparkling sunshine. Maybe I'll get a bottle of prosecco for tonight at a friend's house, perhaps I'll have a really substantial late lunch since neither this friend, her husband or her visiting daugher are interested in feasting, hence there will be nothing more than a few old crackers and cheese at her house this evening.

My plan for tomorrow includes Sir Alec Guiness in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. I've watched the first two episodes - wow! What a fantastic production. If the Gary Oldman picture is half as good, it'll be great.

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate the holiday. To the folks like myself who, by not celebrating, feel as if we're swimming upstream without a paddle, may the force be with you! And with me! Oh yeah.

Gotcha!

2011-12-23T08:21:00.004-05:00

Yeah, they caught up with me. I'm talking about the Christmas blues. Dang, man. I thought I was going to get away free and clear this year.

It happened last night while I was standing around the Capitol Christmas tree with dear neighbors and friends. I was dressed up, ready and willing to launch into singing along with these people who gather every year at the tree, after which they meet at a neighbor's house to feast and drink toasts to the season. I'm a part of the village now, hence I'm warmly invited to participate. It's a wonderful thing.

When it came time to sing, my throat snapped shut. I was unable to vocalize a single syllable. Out of the nowhere the blues came up, like a roundhouse right punch to the gut. Ouch! A friend of mine who is also Jewish sensed my distress, walked over and said, "They should know better than to invite Jews to this shindig." Sweet of him - of course he was there, too!

As if in shamanic alignment with my sudden melancholy, the skies opened and the rain came falling down, catching everyone by surprise. I don't think there was a single umbrella in the crowd. I was wearing my beloved cashmere coat, my finest Vietnamese silk scarf, my lovingly hand-painted rock n roll boots, and since I felt on the verge of bursting into tears, I decided to make a hasty exit from the scene of good vibes.

The rain poured down. It was so wet, oh my goodness. My glasses fogged up halfway to the chateau. Finally I took them off, walked blind, sad and soaking wet, back home.

Awwww, poor little Reya.

I must laugh at myself in spite of the fact that I'm now feeling the Christmas blues. I'm not the first nor will I be the last person to get a little weepy right around now. At least I'm not letting that sadness turn brittle, I'm not allowing it to congeal into snarkiness or grinchiness (is that a word?)

I'm de-scrooged, yes, but I guess still vulnerable to the wave of emotions that are a part of the holiday season for many people. Yep, I am a human being, I surely am. OK. So be it.

Peace on earth, y'all, and good will to humans. Indeed!

GPS of the Soul

2011-12-21T08:38:00.004-05:00

Thirteen years ago today my ex, the dog and I rolled into Washington DC after a drive across the U.S. from San Francisco. The moving van was also en route; all we had to do was find a place to live.

I remember how alien I felt, not of this landscape even though I lived here briefly in 1981 and had returned many times to teach witch camp in W. Virginia. Of course I'd left my heart in San Francisco (it took three years before I was able to retrieve it).

I felt either numb or ill - can't say which, as we set up a temporary household in "corporate housing" - apartment/condos in Reston, Virginia that were so generic, I rented and watched "The Stepford Wives" in order to dance in shamanic alignment with the situation.

Everything was wrong about this new life I was embarking upon. The terrible DC water upset my delicate San Francisco sensibilities, the food did not measure up (still doesn't, actually, though it seemed more important then than now). The only people I was acquainted with had been students at witch camp, all of whom carefully hid their spirituality in the broom closet in their "real" lives, something I couldn't fathom at the time. In virtually every conversation I stuck my foot in my mouth - inadvertently I assure you! I didn't understand that there existed a highly developed behavioral protocol here, one that was quite different than what I was used to.

I didn't get that there would be such tremendous cultural differences between the two cities. I thought, hey, DC and SF are both American cities - how different could they be? Holy cow, I did not get it.

Jake and I walked up and down the suburban streets by day, I clung to my ex at night. Oh man, was it a hard start!

Today I've lived in DC as long as I did in San Francisco. So - am I a Washingtonian now? While allegedly meditating this morning, the idea that I could turn out to be permanently bi-coastal arose vividly into my mind.

I've lived in every American time zone. Am I Coloradan (where I was born and spent my first five years)? Or perhaps I'm still a Kansas City girl (where I grew up). Maybe attempting to identify myself by time zone or city is not relevant. Maybe it never was! Indeed, life is short. I think today I'll stop trying to work this out, turn my mind to something more interesting, yes? I say yes.

Happy solstice, y'all. Cheers!

De-scrooged

2011-12-20T08:32:00.005-05:00

There's hardly anything I love more than when I change my mind about some belief I've held close to my heart over a long period of time. Especially as I grow older, I'm a lot less interested in identifying with my values and beliefs, hence if some window opens that brings in a fresh breeze of new thought, I tend to be delighted rather than appalled.

Devoting oneself to any set of beliefs is a form of mental stinginess, it's stuckness, inertia. When my mind opens to a new way of thinking, it's refreshing, slightly unsettling, but good, really good.

You know I'm not talking about the finest of human values like compassion, the desire to do good deeds and care about others. Those qualities are expansive and generous. What I'm referring to are societal standard thought forms, like "Republicans are bad," or "All corporations are evil," or "Every politician is corrupt."

Or ... "I hate the holiday season."

That's the thought form that has quite suddenly and miraculously shifted in my mind and heart. By suddenly I mean over the last few years. I used to be the ultimate holiday season grinch. I began complaining long before the season arrived, made myself absolutely miserable from Thanksgiving to New Year's Day. Yesterday between clients I looked back through old journals to see just how vociferous I used to be about what I believed was an unalterable fact: that I would always suffer during the holidays because I have no husband, family in town, children or a reason to celebrate any one of the festivals of light that take place at this time of year.

I felt sad for the younger Reya, suffering so much and for no reason whatsoever. Gracious! All that's different now, whether because I'm in the happy hour of life, or due to years of receiving the wholesome benefit of Chinese medicine or something I can't identify.

Tonight is the first night of Hanukkah, a minor holiday in Judaism that got plumped up because of having to compete with Christmas. Friends are coming for dinner, so I'm going to make potato latkes. Fun! On Thursday I'll join a group of neighbors at the Capitol Christmas tree to sing carols. On Christmas Eve I'll be at an open house here in the 'hood, and on New Year's Day I've been invited to a "big-ass buffet" at a friend's house in Dupont Circle.

I would never pass up a big-ass buffet, I mean really! Would you? It will be a lovely conclusion to the lovely holidays this year.

Devotion to a set of entrenched ideas, especially if they make you miserable, is sadly ridiculous, yes? I say yes. I used to think that sticking to my guns, as it were, meant I had integrity. If that doesn't reflect a bit of twisted thinking, I don't know what does.

Turning now from reflecting on old thought forms, it's on to solstice, Hanukkah, Christmas and New Year's.

Cheers! (clink)

The leaves are long gone now which makes visible almost the entire dome of the Capitol from the east side of Lincoln Park.

Wow

2011-12-19T12:02:00.004-05:00

Vaclav Havel AND Kim Jong Il dead on the same day? A friend remarked on that, on how completely opposite those two leaders were. Somehow their passing feels apt here at the tail end of a year in which so many entrenched leaders set sail either from their thrones of power or from the world altogether.

The pics of Gaddafi dead in a freezer in a shopping center were iconic, spooky, and surreal, yes? I say yes.

From the Arab spring to riots in England to Occupy Wall Street, it has been a year of serious upheaval. I've said it before but it bears repeating: this is how it was during the 60s - out of whack, upside down, exciting and dangerous, as if the whole world could go up in flames in a hot second.

When I was in massage school, my great teacher Judy Topaz used to say, "REYA! Look at STRUCTURE, not energy!" She repeated that many times, until it finally sunk in that I was going to be contending with muscles and bones in addition to auras. It was quite a revelation.

Nevertheless it is my tendency to look at the energetics of any situation. What this year looks like to me is the tower card in the tarot.

Vaclav and Kim are gone now. May they heal and fly high.

As for the rest of us still inhabiting planet Earth, I wonder - what next? It's very exciting!

What a Relief!

2011-12-18T08:39:00.004-05:00

What is a perfect day? Of course there is no such thing, but a close to perfect day includes waking up after a good night's sleep, satisfying work, connection with people I love, excellent timing, princess parking at the Matchbox bar, delicious food and drink, warmth in the winter, cool in the summer, sunshine and/or dramatic weather, creative self-expression and a couple of excellent surprises.

Oh yeah, that was yesterday.

We humans yearn, we desire. We want, and want and want and want. We go after what we desire, grasping, grabbing, hanging on as tightly as we can to the fruits of our ambitions. Only later in life is it possible to understand that letting go is every bit as pleasing as achieving and attaining and procuring. Wow.

I believe I've finally let go of Vega. Oh man it feels so good to let her go. I feel clean, restored to myself again. NaNoWriMo is for people who need to blow out a big ole writer's block through a push of words. Creativity is not my problem, nope. It's the craft of writing that I struggle with, the careful shaping of words. There was none of that happening in November, my goodness. Just during the last few days I feel I am fully back to this blog, to Chateau Seven (my other blog). I'm reading blogs again, I am back to myself, in other words: free.

If I had written The Tell when I was forty, would I have been able to let go when I realized it wasn't good or good for me? I might have decided to hammer away at it endlessly.

The next time someone tells you getting older is an awful twist of fate, don't believe them! Getting older is awesome, fantastic. A beautiful client says she is "getting better at quitting." Indeed, it's a great skill to cultivate, though very difficult to appreciate until late middle age. My mother used to say the first half of life is about acquiring, the last half is about giving it all away. I didn't understand then, but I do now, oh yeah!

It's good to be back. Shalom.

All is well

2011-12-17T07:54:00.002-05:00

I just took a walk through Eastern Market. All was calm and bright. Calm? What I remember about the last Saturday before Christmas is that it used to be a feeding frenzy, but maybe what I'm remembering is the last Saturday at shopping malls. You won't catch me at a shopping mall very often in any event, but especially at this time of year.

As for the nightmares, they have vamoosed. Yesterday I smudged my bedroom, washed the sheets, hung the dream catcher out in the blustery wind to clear it, and set my intention to have a night of peaceful sleep. All my ministrations worked, hence I am well rested, smiling, and good to go for this afternoon's clients.

It's a gloomy, cold, cloudy day, seasonally appropriate and nice for me since I will spend most of this afternoon working. When it's sparkling and sunny, no matter how much I'm enjoying the sessions, a part of me wants to be outside, walking around, taking pictures. Today could be a perfect day.

I'm happy to get back into the happy-hour-of-life state of mind. To all the beings and forces that helped me send those nightmares packing: thank you!

Happy Saturday. Shalom.

How dare you?

2011-12-16T07:46:00.006-05:00

Right now I am in the happy hour of life (if indeed morning = youth, afternoon = adulthood, and evening = old age). Hence I am absolutely determined to relax and have fun, roll with the punches, whatever they may be, not take things too literally or too seriously and do, as my friend Mary says, as I damn well please.

Which is why I'm a little annoyed to have had terrible nightmares about being homeless and stranded in San Francisco last night. Hey! It's too late in life for these nightmares. CAN YOU HEAR ME?? (Shouting at my unconscious.)

When I woke up, rather than hanging on to the spooky feeling, as I would have earlier in life, I felt angry. A super hot shower and an excellent bout of meditation and prayer seems to have broken the spell of these awful dreams. And now, onwards to a busy day of work here in the beautiful chateau with people I adore.

Life is good. I'm not letting a dream get in the way of enjoying it. So there!

This is not photoshopped. There are so many lights on the blue tree, the only way my camera can digitally express what's going on is to fuse them into a huge blue field of light.

Chiaroscuro

2011-12-15T07:55:00.009-05:00

I live in a swanky neighborhood in a buttoned down, serious city which is why I find rather hilarious just how tacky, gaudy, and overworked the beautiful houses look during the holidays, encrusted with baubles, lights, reindeer, big ugly plastic santas and such. No offense Santa Claus, but my dear you are not pretty, c'mon.

There's no house on Capitol Hill as surreal in terms of over-decoration as some in suburban neighborhoods where the residents know nothing about restraint. There were suburban neighborhoods outside San Francisco we used to visit every year, just because they were so over the top. People, in their cars in a long queue, waited patiently to drive through those neighborhoods. What would aliens from another planet make of this behavior? I wonder.

The people who own the chateau decorate just one tree in the front yard. There are MANY blue lights on the tree. More than many, you could say. Do I dare to speak the truth? There are too many blue lights on that tree. I have yet to take a picture that isn't blurry; I'll keep trying. The tree, droopy under the weight of all those lights, is nevertheless pretty cheerful though I admit as soon as New Year's Day has passed, I'm instantly tired of all Christmas decor, in particular the blue tree.

Some people keep their Christmas lights switched on until March. It's so wrong! After January 1, our secular solstice, the landscape should be allowed some cold, quiet darkness - not that it's ever dark in the city, but still, we should try to dance in alignment with the long dark month of January, shouldn't we? I think so. Seems disrespectful, or at least cheeky, to rage against the dark after the solstice.

Here at the chateau the lights are unplugged on February 1st, the cross-quarter day between solstice and equinox. Conceptually it's quite elegant, but still too long for me.

I'm thinking about light and dark today because a Facebook friend posted this status: I celebrate the dark and breathe fire. Once upon a time, when I was fully wiccan, I celebrated the dark, too, kind of exclusively as is the practice in that tradition. These days I celebrate the light at least as much as the dark, probably a little more than the dark, or maybe a LOT more than the dark. That means I no longer have to breathe fire. What a relief!

Get out, Reya.

2011-12-14T09:16:00.004-05:00

The dog is not imprisoned, just hanging out in the Clothes Encounters window at Eastern Market.

It's cloudy and cold today, but I'm about to gather my wits about me, get out there and walk around a little bit. Working at the chateau is excellent in every way except some days I don't get out of the house, other than maybe for a few minutes here and there between clients. It's kind of a problem.

My father was agoraphobic, hence I'm always on the lookout for symptoms. I believe in my case too much time inside the chateau has more to do with bad time management than an irrational fear of public spaces - thank goodness.

On days like today I wonder if it would behoove me to get a dog. During Jake's long life, I was outside two or three times a day every day. Or perhaps I should not place the onus on some poor canine. Maybe what I really need to do is try to become more organized. I could schedule outdoor time just as I schedule my clients.

God I hope it doesn't come to that. How sad would that be, to have to book a walk into my schedule? For heaven's sake. Kicking it into gear now. Shalom, y'all.

Spy vs. Spy

2011-12-12T08:54:00.008-05:00

As a part of my recovery from the NaNoWriMo bender, I've been working my way through the genre of spy movies. (Every day it becomes clearer it was actually not a great thing for me to dive in head-first. But it's over now. Krikey!)

Netflix always makes James Bond films streamable (is that a word?) during the holidays. After January 1, to see the suave, debonair, womanizing Sean Connery, you have to put the film in the DVD queue. I of course love James Bond - I mean what's not to love about those movies? James Bond is an icon, an archetype. It's instinctual to love the clan chieftain/warrior superhero patriarch who will vanquish evil. The archetype has been interpreted by many different actors. Each guy gives the archetype a slightly different spin. My favorite is Roger Moore, such a classy British gent. In most of his films, the inevitable car chase is replaced with boat chases. Very fun alternative if you ask me. I always love the ski chases, too.

James Bond movies don't pose any kind of puzzle, so they can't accurately be called thrillers. You know he will prevail and in the meantime be strapped so some kind of device intended to kill him slowly, but of course he will escape, and save the girl, too. You know he's going to bed with at least two women, probably more, all with terrible names. The films are funny, but hardly intriguing. That's why I loved the Austin Powers movies (only saw the first two). When I watch Mike Meyers in those films, I think, Is that what it looks like to those who weren't of age in the 60s? Very interesting! We were extremely naive then.

I'm also watching a bunch of "classic" spy films. I watched "The Spy Who Came in from the Cold" with the splendid Richard Burton. I could stare at his face for days - what a face! I watched the movie twice, mostly because I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on. But I found it incredibly depressing. Equally depressing was "The Falcon and the Snowman." Such a cynical, hard-hearted movie.

Last night I watched "The Quiller Memorandum." There was no memorandum in the movie, but other than that, it's top notch. Harold Pinter wrote the excellent screenplay. Though I was unimpressed with George Segal's wisecracking character, the rest of the acting is superb. I love me some Sir Alec Guiness! And Berlin in the 1960s, still haunted by Nazis, living and dead - very spooky! Poor Max von Sydow. Has he ever played a good guy?

So it goes, my recovery from the free fall of NaNoWriMo. I was swallowed alive, but I emerged somehow or another. Probably it was a matter of angelic intervention, or so the Sufi acupuncturist would say. I'm still working to get myself all the way back from The Tell. For instance this morning I saw a story in the New York Times about conflict and fighting in a small town in Yemen. I thought, If only I can get Vega back there to help ...

Then I remembered, oh yeah, I just made her up!

Tonight: "From Russia with Love." C'mon Sean Connery, take me one step closer to a full recovery, yes? I say yes.

Fables

2011-12-11T09:42:00.007-05:00

I've been re-thinking the story of the Ant and the Grasshopper. It's an interesting tale of extremes, based on different values. The ant works hard all summer while the grasshopper sings. (I love the illustrations in which the grasshopper is playing the violin. Very cool!) When winter comes, the grasshopper is toast while the ants are cozy and warm in their den with the stored food of summer. In many versions at the end of the story, the ants are cruel to the lazy grasshopper.

Mostly in the past when I heard this story, my reaction was shame because clearly I am a grasshopper, not an ant! But since I've decided it's too late in life to feel ashamed of my basic nature, I'm free of the emotional baggage that kept me from examining this story closely.

According to wikipedia there's another version of the tale in which the point of the story is an exploration of one's nature. Are you a grasshopper or an ant? is the theme, rather than You'd better work hard, you lazy bastards -- or else!

What's missing from this story is the Tao of Goldilocks. Sitting around playing the violin all summer long without ever being productive sounds completely boring, while working all summer, never enjoying the long days and warm sunshine, is a very sad idea indeed. I wonder if all of Aesop's fables are polarized in this way.

I was at a party last night with people who have worked hard all their lives. Every one of them comes from families that already had plenty of money, country homes, etc. and every one of them was the recipient of wonderful opportunities, great schools, travel and privilege. Success, for these people, was never an option. They were raised for a life of privilege and they worked hard to create this luxury for themselves. They've amassed lots of property, fabulous clothes and jewelry, and the pride that comes with achievement. They're now looking forward to kicking back and enjoying all they've worked so hard to bring into being. I salute and admire these people! My life could not look less like theirs, however. I was impressed with their warmth towards me, in spite of how obviously I did not fit in.

The haphazard life path I've followed, working just enough to make possible a lot of singing, without the foundation of privilege, has provided many unusual opportunities. Certainly I've happened upon a different set of opportunities than the people at last night's party, no doubt about it.

Am I a grasshopper, then? Not exactly. I'm a grasshopper who does more than just sing, who stops to smell the roses a lot more often than any self respecting ant ever would. I don't regret it.

Age appropriate dream

2011-12-10T08:10:00.008-05:00

In my dream last night, The Skull was after us. It was kind of like a Terminator skull, kind of like a human skull and kind of like The Scream by Edward Munch. We ran from The Skull, ran like hell should say, barely escaping it time and again. "We" = the anonymous dream people and I.

But we gathered our resources, we smashed The Skull into a million pieces, afterwhich we headed straightaway for the bank where we deposited the shreds in a safety deposit box. Together we walked down to the Potomac, threw the key triumphantly into a faster moving current.

It was a scary dream. I was clenching my jaw, my fists - I woke up stiff, yet for some unknown reason, happy. In fact I awoke laughing. Oh yeah, The Skull WILL get me at some point, not today, at least so far. Sometimes my dream imagery is rather pedestrian. I could, perhaps, have portrayed Death somewhat more poetically, less literally.

While I was wondering about that, the chateau ghosts rushed towards me, swearing they had not sent the bad dream. I mean really - was I even worried about that? No I was not. Though annoying, the chateau ghosts are harmless. Dudes, it's OK. It was a dream of aging and mortality - exactly the right way for my psyche to begin to get ready for the inevitable. Don't worry! We're good.

the devil wears prada

2011-12-09T11:02:00.006-05:00

What's your style? Everyone has a style, you know. Even "I don't give a rat's ass what I look like," is a style.

Those who know me will find it hard to believe I really love beautiful clothes. I love wearing well fitting, well styled, flattering clothes. I do! What I dislike, fear and avoid at all costs is shopping for clothes. Huge department stores completely bewilder me. It takes every ounce of willpower not to run screaming from the sensory overload of Macy's or Nordstrom. (I feel exactly the same way at Costco or Home Depot). Should I manage to contain myself, the next problem is selecting what I want to try on. A thousand hangers loaded with fabric shapes, colors and textures, hanging on row after row of racks, on floor after floor. Bloody hell, I'm overwhelmed; I can't tell what I like or don't, it's synapse bustin' TMI for a slow processor of information such as myself. Smaller stores, like boutiques, are a lot easier to go into but they're almost all outrageously expensive.

Then there's the humiliation of the dressing rooms. If the fluorescent lights and stark mirrors weren't bad enough, I have the additional problem of being built for clothes from another era. My legs aren't quite short enough for petite sizes, but are way too short for misses. I'm between number sizes, too. Everything I try on is either a little too big or too small. It's discouraging, believe me.

During the 70s and 80s I wore a lot of vintage clothing. Clothing design from the 40s and 50s provided many options for bodies shaped like mine. But now that I am vintage, I'm not clear this style is the best idea any longer.

I mention all this because I've been trying to buy some new clothes lately - shopping and trying things on - and failing to arrive home with anything new. Oh man do I miss my lifetimes as a man. How I would love to put on a suit every morning. Suits look good on everyone, provided they're tailored and well made. A cheap suit is never a great idea, but nice suits? Wow.

I was also a nun in many lives, as well as a monk. A whole series of lifetimes centered around nursing and house service (maid, butler, cook). In all those lives I was required to wear a uniform of some kind. Those were the good old days.

That was then and this is now. Do I want to go the route of internet shopping? Oy vey.

Life is good, my complaints are inconsequential. Oh yeah.

James Bond almost always wore suits or tuxedos, no matter what. Also I would probably look good in Moneypenny's outfit.

All hail the matriarchs

2011-12-08T16:54:00.004-05:00

I've been thinking about my mother a lot lately, in part because I attended a birth a couple of months ago. That experience reminds me that everyone arrives on earth in the same way, through the mother. Even a "good" labor and delivery is strenuous and a little freaky. I am in awe of parents everywhere for having the courage to go through with it.

My mother endured labor and delivery five times - FIVE, holy cow. That was during the age of heavily medicalized childbirth so she was drugged, strapped down and made to give birth as unnaturally as possible. I'm very grateful she was so valiant! But oh my, I wish she hadn't been forced to suffer so much.

For the first time in my life, I sat with an infant the other day, just for 2 hours. Afterwards I was wiped out, even though everything went well and she didn't even cry until the very end. I can't imagine what it must be like for parents. As for my babyhood, well, I was the 'bad' baby. I had terrible colic, never slept, got sick all the time with hideous ear infections. I was a hot mess. They told me the only way I would sleep is if they ran the vacuum cleaner while simultaneously playing Bach on the hi-fi. It's not my fault, but my god, can you imagine how many things they tried before they found the right combination? I can't imagine how exhausting and frustrating it must have been to try to make me comfortable. As an infant, I was inconsolable.

It's not mother's day, but I'm in a mood to salute the mothers of the world. Y'all are bad asses! I am in awe.

Spectacular Floppages

2011-12-07T08:50:00.004-05:00

I used to be a very timid person, afraid of everything, basically. But the Sufi acupuncturist has been futzing with my terribly deficient kidney jing which is the source of my lifelong fear. (I love the way in which it's never your fault, in Chinese medicine, when something isn't working. It's just an imbalance! Yeah!)

On this gloomy, rainy, cold morning in Washington DC, I'm reflecting on how I've enthusiastically tackled a few life-long ambitions - and failed completely! - during the last couple of years. I tried to learn to play the bass: disaster. I tried to write a book - omg it is SO bad. Yesterday I set out to buy some new clothes. I had a budget I was determined to spend, and a great, very fashionable friend, who went with me.

After trying on pretty much everything in the store, at last I decided to buy one blouse - ONE - though I'm going to return it tomorrow since it was extremely expensive, also the blouse is very trendy which means it will go out of style in the next five minutes.

Sigh.

Another failure!

Gracious. Hey, don't think I'm sitting here feeling sorry for myself or anything. I've also succeeded a few times. I made Thanksgiving dinner, and it was good! I moved my practice into the chateau and that's going GREAT. It hasn't all been about failure.

I guess what's worth noting is the fact that I've TRIED new things, things I had previously decided I wasn't capable of doing. It's the attempt, rather than the result, that's interesting to me. I owe my courage to the Sufi acupuncturist, but also I think it has to do with this time of life. If I don't try it now, when will I try? At age 70? 80? It's now or never, hey?

No matter what age you are, whatever you've always wanted to try - give it a go. Carpe diem, y'all.

Too many ideas

2011-12-06T07:24:00.007-05:00

Library of Congress

I continue to reflect on the NaNoWriMo experience. Wow, that was quite a ride!

One thing I have in spades as an artist is creativity. I am an idea person, sometimes to great excess. One of my teachers spoke often about the power of restraint. That was in a drawing class, should say. Even in drawing, once I start, it's hard to leave any corner of the page empty. I go on and on.

As the month of writing progressed, this particular characteristic was evident. I jammed too many ideas into each chapter, far more than needed, far more than made any kind of sense, too many to be interesting. I couldn't stop myself from inserting every spy situation I could think of.

The Tell wasn't all bad. Indeed there are pockets of "good" writing (whatever that means), an odd paragraph here or there in which I'm in a groove. The style and content convey the soul of the story. It's kind of fun to read these paragraphs. They appear in the text, inevitably, just before I stopped writing for the day. Every day I spent at least two hours writing, non stop. Apparently I had to churn out one hour and forty five minutes of crap before unearthing fifteen minutes of writing that actually worked, at which time I stopped writing. Hmmm.

One reason the month of writing was so fun is that The Tell was unplanned in every way conceivable. I let it come to me like an aimless wander. Though I was at it morning and evening, I didn't really care about the book itself. The rush of all those words coming out of me was what I was focused on. It was quite a rush! At some point I realized I had at last come into synch with Vega. It was at that moment I started to care. That coincided with my decision to stop writing until after Thanksgiving. Yeah. It's interesting to think about.

Real writers are tough, intense, powerful artists who can hang in there, even when they care about their characters, the story. People who can write - and finish - a novel are mighty. I am in awe!

Intersections of Fate

2011-12-04T09:16:00.007-05:00

Mercury is retrograde right now, something that allegedly is supposed to mess up communications, plans, and progress on many fronts. We are cyclic beings living in a cyclic universe. I believe the movement of the planets is, in its own way, exactly like the movement of my thoughts and actions. As above, so below. I'm not the first person to experience the worlds as interconnected, by the way.

Since Mercury turned retrograde on Thanksgiving, at the dark moon, during an eclipse, I decided to take the reverse motion seriously. That means I've been trying not to make plans all the time (my habit). Also I've been resisting the urge to expect life will unfurl as I think it should. For a control freak like me, this is challenging.

One fun thing I've been playing around with is the practice of improvisational walking. It's a perfect shamanic dance of alignment with Mercury retrograde. An improvisational walk involves wandering "aimlessly", allowing myself to be guided by whim, intuition, or situational curiosity. These walks have nothing to do with running errands or accomplishing anything. I allow my body to guide me, pausing often to ask myself, "should I turn left or right here?" then going with the first impulse. Sometimes I turn 180 degrees, retrace my steps. I'm sure the neighbors think I'm nuts. Perhaps I am.

Here we are, seconds after coinciding.

The practice has yielded many wonderful serendipities. For instance the other day I ran into an old friend in the middle of an improvisational walk, someone who moved to Austin, Texas many years ago. I haven't seen him in more than 10 years, but there he was, coming out of a chocolate store in Union Station at the perfect moment for the two of us to coincide.

This morning I took an unplanned walk during which I ran into far more than the usual quotient of client/neighbor/friends. I also arrived at Peregrine Espresso just as someone was leaving, so I had a table to myself (very rare). There are other examples of serendipity, but you get the idea.

I wonder sometimes how much the habit of fanatically planning of my days constricts rather than organizes the way life unfolds. Like with everything else, a balanced life involves some planning, some aimless wandering. Finding the right mix is an art, an alchemy, an effin miracle, isn't it? I think it is.

Happy Sunday, y'all.

Stories

2011-12-03T08:36:00.005-05:00

When the singularity arrives, if I'm still alive, I'm screwed. Machines are super fast, while I am slow. I am unable to take in a lot of information all at once - when presented with too much, I shut down. For instance, when two people are talking at the same time, I can't hear either one of them. So what's going to happen when suddenly I have a super-power, when my neural network is entwined with a digital presence? I foresee an identity crisis or perhaps even worse.

As the singularity approaches, people would be wise to stock up on psychoactives: tranquilizers, mood stabilizers, antidepressents. Fill up your liquor cabinets, people! We might also all need to become crack addicts in order to cope with the lightning-fast workings of technology. I foresee a whole lot of personal chaos, oh yeah.

Can anyone tell I've been thinking about writing a science fiction book? Poor Vega, thrust into the future, dealing with her digital implants. She would still be a spy - some kind of super futuristic spy, I'm thinking.

NaNoWriMo unleashed a surprisingly powerful beast within, the Secret Fiction Writer hidden deep inside my psyche till now. Maybe I'll just think about it for awhile, then let it go, or maybe it'll be a story instead of a book. As you can see, Jack's beanstalk may have been cut down, but it's not dead yet!

Jack and the Beanstalk

2011-12-02T07:48:00.003-05:00

Leave it to the Sufi acupuncturist to show me, time and again, how brilliant he is. He "listened" to my pulses this week, after which he immediately began to talk about discernment. I hadn't mentioned a thing about The Tell, how I had to cut and run because the process of writing was so addictive. But when the word "discernment" came out of his mouth, I knew that was the energy he was perceiving. Wow. In my post from last week, Depth of Field, I used that exact word to describe my need to let go of Vega and her exploits.

In Chinese medicine, wood is the element of creativity and growth, it is the energy of spring, the bursting seed pods and unfurling of the green world. Metal, in Chinese medicine, is the element that "controls" wood. In the case of The Tell, my metal element came to the fore, chopped down the wildly overgrown creative energy that fired the writing of the book.

TIM-BERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!

The idea of an eternal state of groundedness is a nice dream, but it's only a dream. I'm shown repeatedly that being centered involves getting out of balance again and again, then returning to center in one way or another. I often work with this idea professionally as well as when I'm teaching. Find a thousand paths back to center, oh yeah.

It's really good to know that my metal element can control my enthusiasms and excesses in terms of being creative. That said, I still miss Vega. Sigh. Oh well.

Awwww

2011-11-30T15:03:00.005-05:00

I've been kind of sentimental lately, listening to music that brings back my formative years, missing Jake, getting teary over cute animal videos on Facebook and such. For awhile I thought it must be some bizarre hormonal spike - bizarre because, after menopause, almost all the emotional drama of the reproductive years evaporates into thin air. Poof.

But then I remembered, oh yeah, this is the holiday season. In order to dance in shamanic alignment with this time, one must get a little misty eyed here and there, one must think of the good old days, whatever that means. I am definitely not one to wax rhapsodic about how things used to be better than they are now. Some things are better now, some things were better then - same as it ever was. And as far as my personal history is concerned, right now is the best time of my entire life. Never - not ever - do I wish I were young again.

The human capacity to be sentimental is a function of the way we decide to store memory. It's wonderful to remember all the best things, though - a bit out of character for me. However since I plunged in face first when Thanksgiving came around, I'm in the energetic current of the holidays. To dance in shamanic alignment requires some sentimental moments.

So be it! Shalom and Cheers!

Close-up of my ancestor altar. In the pic is my sister Karen, the oldest (may she fly high), and my beloved sister Deborah, looking adorable. I am the baby.

I get by with a little help from my friends

2011-11-29T12:29:00.004-05:00

Steven of the beautiful blog The Golden Fish has planted the seed of a notion in my head/heart, that there actually IS a book inside me, one that has been buried beneath chase scenes and espionage, disguises, double crossing boyfriends, Yemeni jail cells and all other manner of intrigue.

This notion brings to mind the dream I had the night before my first initiation in the shamanic arts. I dreamed I couldn't hear very well. In the dream I figure out I've got earplugs on/in. I take them out, but find there is a second pair of plugs underneath. I keep pulling out pair after pair of earplugs, long since compressed into almost solid cubes of dense foam. At the end of the dream I'm pulling out the final layer: stories from the New York Times that have been folded into tiny squares and inserted in lieu of earplugs.

It was the next day I "heard" my spirit guides for the first time.

What an incredible dream, hey? That was decades ago, but I remember it vividly, oh yeah.

Maybe blogging has helped me uncork the well of words I know exists within me, kind of like removing the layers of earplugs in the dream. Maybe 'The Tell' could be seen as analogous to the stories from the New York Times, folded neatly into tiny squares, tucked deep into my ears, into my brain!

Steven's insight, that 'The Tell' was a cleansing, resonates powerfully for me. I'm intrigued. While I wait to see what happens with that, I'm writing a word portrait of Vega that goes deeper than anything in 'The Tell.' I'm filling in some of the empty spaces, about her family; the father, a Cold War era spy, her alcoholic mother who is uptight, shut down, even after a few scotches. I'm writing about Vega's disability.

It's hard to say goodbye to Vega!

Happy Tuesday, y'all. Peace.

Vega's Legacy

2011-11-28T08:30:00.003-05:00

Have you seen the film "Something's Gotta Give" with Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson? What a hoot, very sweet mid-life romance movie. In my mind's eye, I'm watching the scene in which she writes her musical play. She is working through a heartbreak, sobbing as she writes, clearly staying up all night writing, crying, writing, kleenexes everywhere, she in her robe. She experiences a transformation as she writes - she begins to laugh instead of cry, you can see her excitement as the words flow through her. At the end she tosses the empty box of kleenex. Writing the play has healed her!

Writing 'The Tell' was ecstatic, yes, but healing? Not really. The book isn't deep or thoughtful; it's not philosophy, just C-grade spy dreck. It's so shallow, it could have been generated by a computer algorhythm. I find that interesting. I always figured I had a book in me, but I thought it would be a provocative, insightful, soulful exploration of human nature. How wrong I was!

I'm not disappointed. It's always a relief when I put down the habit of being so high fallutin'.

One thing I am endlessly grateful about is the fact that what did NOT come out of me was a sensitive coming of age story, or a rehash of my life's adventures. I do get out of my own naval every now and then, up to the shallows. Thank God!

The little blue squares are sticky notes that say FREE!

A Song for Sunday

2011-11-27T08:01:00.002-05:00

Not again in this flesh will I see the old trees stand here as they did, weighty creatures made of light, delight of their making straight in them and well, whatever blight our blindness was or made, however thought or act might fail.

The burden of absence grows, and I pay daily the grief I owe to love for women and men, days and trees I will not know again. Pray for the world’s light thus borne away. Pray for the little songs that wake and move.

For comfort as these lights depart, recall again the angels of the thicket, columbine aerial in the whelming tangle, song drifting down, light rain, day returning in song, the lordly Art piecing out its humble way.

Though blindness may yet detonate in light, ruining all, after all the years, great right subsumed finally in paltry wrong, what do we know? Still the Presence that we come into with song is here, shaping the seasons of His wild will.

~~Wendell Berry (from the OnBeing blog, by Krista Tippett)

Happy Sunday to all. Shalom!

Depth of Field

2011-11-26T10:40:00.010-05:00

One of my great teachers used to say that the elements of nature are "one-eyed," in other words, great forces that carry on large and small, no matter the impact on creatures of our size. The element of air, for instance, exists as the tiniest breeze but also as a category five hurricane. Since we are "two-eyed," we must be discerning. When invoking the element of air, she always said, be specific - ask for a gentle breeze, never ask for the full force of the power of air. That's crazy.

Likewise, it's great to go for a bike ride when the air is still, or moving slightly, but ridiculous to get out there in a 50 mph gusty wind. One of my spirit guides likes to tell me it's ok to take shelter when needed. Safety first!

It's in this spirit that I'm mindfully, consciously, and purposefully saying goodbye to Vega, fiction writing, and NaNoWriMo. It has been one of the most powerful experiences I can remember, the way I was swallowed up in the vortex of the story, how much I wanted to do nothing but write. It was a full blown word bender, an addiction spun out of control. I bet I'm not the only fiction writer who believed I could stop whenever I wanted. Holy cow.

I looked over a few chapters yesterday - the text is more of a plot avalanche than a piece of prose. There is no common voice, some parts are excessively descriptive, others pure action. Some chapters contain dialog only; you have to guess what's actually going on. There are huge chunks of missing information, explanations of how Vega got from a dangerous situation back to the hotel, for instance. There are too many spy devices; there's not nearly enough soul. In other words, The Tell sucks!!

Ha ha!!

Creativity, too, is a force of nature. When I'm in the flow I am completely blissed out, whether or not what I'm creating is worth the time and effort. It's the process I love, not the product. This was the case with The Tell. I'm not sad or disappointed it's so bad. Honestly, I think it's hilarious. NaNoWriMo vs. Reya? Ka-pow! Knockout in Round One.

As a two-eyed, discerning being, I'm letting go. Well, I might write a final chapter but that's it, to kill her off or let her live happily ever after. Is that the same thing as saying "one more cigarette, then I quit!" ?? Could be. It was a great lesson, very revealing and extremely fun. I'm very happy I gave it a go, and very happy I'm not deluded about the experience. Also grateful to acknowledge that I'm eager to move on.

All is well. Shalom.

Deconstructing the Feast

2011-11-25T09:34:00.007-05:00

Yesterday was a big ritual, a personal taboo breaker, a healing. The day was a complete and total success. The food was good, the guests were lovely, the music was just right. You can plan forever but when the time comes, you never know if a dinner party is going to plotz or soar. Don't ask me to explain why - I have no idea. Believe me, I've thought about it a lot.

I planned and co-priestessed many a ritual during my years with Reclaiming. Some worked, others were total disasters, even with the same basic structure. Some of the rituals were huge, like the Spiral Dance with its 1500 participants. Some were smaller, around 300 or so, and others were very small - 20-30 people. What I'm saying is, I have ritual planning creds.

Yesterday we feasted, toasted, laughed, listened to music, traded stories. Afterwards everyone pitched in with good humor. We cleaned the kitchen in seconds flat, or so it seemed. Later I sent everyone home with a plate of leftovers, including enough for my own dinner tonight. The ritual went very well indeed. I keep saying "ritual" because it is - it really is. Google "feast days." Humans have been gathering for harvest feasts forever!

Thanksgiving, even in spite of its wild expansive energy, arises from a rather elegant ritual structure. The structure is practical as well as superstitious. In assembling the meal, I had to re-stock my larder with flours, oils, spices, sugars and other staples. What a great thing to do just before winter sets in! The fact that the feast must always yield leftovers is a sacred drama of abundance, a way of sending out to the universe a wish to remain well fed during the dark quarter of the year.

In all prayer we ask but also say thank you. I realized this morning that Black Friday is the second part of the prosperity ritual. We've taken it out to extremes, as we Americans do, but the idea - to go forth and make offerings - is exactly perfect in terms of ritual form. Gifts, i.e. love and generosity in physical form, are offerings to the divine, always. Gift shopping the day after a big feast is so right!

One of my guests cut her finger (small cut) while carving the turkey, hence she inadvertently made an offering to the spirit of the animal (in many cultures blood is shed as a sacrifice after a successful hunt). My goodness we are all shamans. You can't make this stuff up!

One of my great teachers used to say that we set a particular energy into motion whenever we gather with a shared intention. Once that energy is in motion, it's our job to dance in alignment with it, go with the flow.

In a few minutes I'm going to head out to walk off yesterday's feast, take pictures, and enjoy this sparkling clear, crisp day. My goal is to buy at least one Christmas gift, probably from one of the Smithsonian stores. In that way I will have completed the elegant, oversized ritual of prosperity we call Thanksgiving. So may it be!

Shalom.

Unimaginative Expectations

2011-11-24T07:17:00.005-05:00

It was a lot harder than I thought, quitting Vega, I mean. Every day I've fought the urge to get back to the story. In fact I've had to utilize a bunch of techniques that help cure addictions, such as OMing, breathing mindfully, taking it one day at a time. My fingers ITCH to get back to the keyboard. When people say a novel can swallow you whole, believe them! Bloody hell.

It was a lot easier than I thought, getting Thanksgiving together here at the chateau. Of course I still have stuff to do, including coming face to face with the turkey, and there was a point yesterday when I was spinning out a little bit with the enormity of breaking my personal Thanksgiving taboo. Still, by the end of the day not only had I accomplished all I set out to do, but I had the dishes washed and put away. Hmmm.

I had a great teacher who used to say that unimaginative expectations lead to unpleasant surprises. In the case of The Tell, my addiction to the story is unpleasant and unexpected, but in the case of T-day, my unimaginative expectations yielded to a nice surprise: I, too, can partake of the American national prosperity ritual. I always love it when I enjoy anything that makes me feel normal. Should say: "normal."

That said, I assume I will experience a few interesting moments today. Breaking personal taboos, while a healing, wonderful, liberating experience, can be nerve-wracking. I'm up for it, though. I really am. Am I?

We shall see! Love, gratitude and happiness to all. Shalom!

Happiness is a warm keyboard

2011-11-21T08:47:00.004-05:00

I'm twitching, y'all. I'm shaky, kind of in an altered state. Wait, kind of? No, I am definitely in an altered state. I decided, wisely I think, to step away from The Tell until after Thanksgiving which means I made myself go back to sleep this morning instead of writing for two hours. It was great to go back to sleep but but but but but ... my fingers are twitching, the story is foremost in my mind. Vega is giving me a look that says, "You'll be sorry to switch this off," but so far I am remembering that Vega is the product of my imagination.

Whoa.

We humans are definitely storytelling maniacs! It's one of our best things. People have described how addictive it is to write fiction, how easy it is to get swallowed up by the world of The Book. Of course I didn't really understand what they were talking about since I had never given it a go. But I get it now! Bloody hell.

I'm like a drug addict without a fix this morning. Ridiculous! A big day of work should help, yes? I say yes.

No such thing as control

2011-11-20T08:00:00.004-05:00

Thanksgiving week has arrived, T minus four days and counting. I am now creating a schedule to help me understand what to cook, and when. When it comes to dinner parties, I enjoy being a control freak. Not only is the food ready (or nearly ready) to serve when the guests arrive, but the kitchen is clean, the appetizers are attractively laid out on a platter, and I'm mixing drinks or pouring wine the second the guests arrive. The mood in the chateau at those moments is serene and welcoming. Ahhhhh....

At the last minute on Thanksgiving, someone will have to be making gravy - that will be me - while someone else will be jockeying for position to pull something or another out of the oven, while someone else will be heroically carving the turkey. Everyone will be standing in the kitchen of course. I foresee mayhem!!

I will battle the forces of chaos as long as I can, but I expect that at some point on Thursday morning, I will surrender to the inevitable. Why not?

In other news I have officially stepped away from The Tell until after Thanksgiving. I miss posting here and on the Chateau Seven blog. I miss reading and hanging out with friends and all those things I used to do long ago (or so it seems long ago) before NaNoWriMo. If I were a serious writer, I would be even weirder than I already am. Holy cow, what a scary thought.

Have a wonderful Sunday, y'all. Shalom.

Say what?

2011-11-18T14:28:00.004-05:00

I like to behave as if I understand everything; it's part of the philosophical mindset. If I keep thinking about it, eventually I will figure it out, or so goes an old assumption that lies deep beneath my mind chatter.

Of course it's a total delusion. If I lived to be a million and did nothing but ponder from now till then, I still wouldn't "get" even the tiniest percentage of all the great mysteries. One benefit of growing older is that I remember (more often than I used to) that I'll never understand it all, never, not ever, hence I take great care deciding exactly what merits my philosophical attention.

Lately I've been thinking about marriage - not any particular marriage, I'm talking about the institution itself. You know what? I don't understand marriage, I really don't. I understand falling in love, of course. And the structure makes sense especially for people who want to have children. Likewise I believe that in marriage people are given an opportunity to work through the most complicated personal issues. In terms of spiritual evolution, marriage as an institution is a strenuous lesson, right up there with the lessons people learn from living with blood family.

The compromises people make in marriage - wow. The things they tolerate from each other, the aspects of each other they rail against, well, I find it fascinating and utterly incomprehensible. Marriage is loving, compassionate, also rife with politics and power struggling. Marriage is complicated!

One of my teachers says marriage is a "crucible" in which two families come together for a purpose. Sometimes that purpose is to produce children, in other situations, the two families are working through a family soul issue, which accounts for all the stereotypes around in-laws. After the purpose (whatever it may be) is consummated, the couple is free to split up or carry on together till death do they part. It's an interesting perspective.

I know many people who have been married for decades. Decades! Continuity and length have not historically been my forte when it comes to romantic connections. Maybe that's why I don't get it. Ya think?

Happy Friday. Say a prayer for the Spirit of Turkey tonight, please? Tomorrow and Sunday 46 million turkeys will be slaughtered. It's a prosperity ritual that requires an animal sacrifice. So be it, but oh! Poor Spirit of Turkey!

Shalom.

More about the damn book

2011-11-17T12:23:00.008-05:00

This is something you don't see in other parts of the U.S., leaves changing while roses bloom. This is a crazy landscape.

The Tell's plot has become so complicated, I've totally lost track. Vega and her old friend (now lover) Jack are on their way back to Yemen when she realizes Jack is double crossing her. He had her convinced it was her boss who made sure she got arrested at the border. But she intercepts a text when Jack goes for a Shi'atsu massage, instantly recognizes the phone number of her agency office. The text: "good work."

So is her boyfriend the bad guy or her boss? Or both? The only thing I can say for certain is that her fantasy of professionally teaming up with Jack, her dream of playing Mr. and Mrs. Smith in Yemen is definitely not happening. What a shame.

Because I'm too confused to write at the moment, I've been watching spy films - always a fun idea, hey? I saw Billion Dollar Brain starring Michael Caine, directed by the surreal Ken Russell. Two woolly socks up. It's worth it just to see the "technology" of that era (1967) - an old computer system that runs on punched cards. Wow! Ed Begley as the cowboy Texas general is truly psychedelic. I thought somehow I had dropped acid by mistake as I watched the lengthy scene in which his space age soldiers sink into the icy sea.

Tonight I'm going to watch The Falcon and the Snowman. I've got a bunch of old spy films in the Netflix queue. Apparently this year my holiday season will revolve around intrigue and plot turns and twists, glamorous, jet-setting lifestyles, lots of cigarettes and booze, fabulous hairdos, too. Cool!

There was only one car chase in Billion Dollar Brain. I'm hoping I don't have to write a chase scene into The Tell. Please tell me it isn't absolutely necessary, ok?

Gobble

2011-11-16T08:06:00.010-05:00

The leaves are falling, the gardens are shrivelled, and even though it has been exceptionally warm and gorgeous in DC (highs in the 60s, even 70s) I haven't seen anyone in flip flops for a couple of weeks. Fall has established itself at last. I love fall.

My morning routine these days includes writing, then meditation after which I pray. This week I'm also sending Reiki to the Spirit of Turkey every morning. I believe it's on the Saturday and Sunday before Thanksgiving that most of the turkeys will be sacrificed. Yeah, sacrificed. Thanksgiving is one of the last rituals of animal sacrifice we Americans embrace, oh yeah.

Animal populations come and go of course, just like everything. But every year we engage in the slaughter of forty six million turkeys, all at once, (number according to the source I saw when I googled). That number might not be exact, but it's a lot of turkeys. The oversoul of the animal takes a big hit on the slaughter days. It is to that oversoul I send Reiki.

We at least eat the animals after the slaughter, in a prosperity feast of overindulgence. I'm going to engage in the ritual this year, but oh you'd better believe I will honor the poor, humble "heirloom breed" turkey I'm going to roast here at the chateau. I think it's better to honor the bird than try to ignore what's really happening. I will honor the turkey with ritual ablutions of butter and fresh herbs, and bow my head in prayers of thanksgiving when it goes in the oven. I will sing heroic songs to honor the dinosaurs of old, the bird's genetic ancestors.

Will my behavior be any weirder than the president's when he "pardons" a turkey? He reads some kind of proclamation, everyone chuckles, the turkey goes back to the farm. Completely bizarre, hey? It does confirm, however, that we are engaged in a mass ritual of animal genocide, otherwise, why a pardon?

This post sounds so serious - it doesn't match my mood at all. I'm really looking forward to T-day, but I want to do it right, you know, my version of "right." All hail the Spirit of Turkey!!

Recipes

2011-11-14T07:48:00.006-05:00

Hayden's Liquor at Eastern Market

HALF-BAKED SPY NOVEL

1. Sign up for NaNoWriMo.
2. Sit at your computer early in the morning. For best results, drink strong coffee and cultivate a devil-may-care attitude.
3. Write. Write anything you want.
4. Do not re-read, just let 'er rip.
5. Enjoy!

THANKSGIVING DINNER PLANNING

1. Over-plan everything. Convince yourself this means the day will be orderly and serene. Remember you are a control freak. Oh yeah! Laugh.
2. Overwhelm yourself entertaining ideas about what to cook. Imagine you can cook every dish you're interested in. Laugh maniacally. Drink more coffee.
3. Imagine yourself frying onions in a flour made by hand, including arborio rice ground in a spice mill until it is a fine powder. Imagine how much rice you must grind to make flour to coat onions for a big green bean casserole, enough to feed six, with leftovers. How delicious would that be? Wow! Imagine using a thermometer to make sure the oil is the right temperature. Imagine every batch of fried onions turning out perfectly, even though frying is not your gift. Laugh. Buy canned fried onions to use on the green bean casserole.
4. Refrain from feeling horrible about the turkey who is just now living out its life, oblivious to what is about to come down. Send Reiki to the turkey every day. Is that hypocritical?
5. Repeat all of the above endlessly, substituting various complicated recipes for the onion rings, then realize there's a simpler way to do it.

Yeah. I could go on with the recipes, but you get the idea, yes?

Right now my life is focused specifically on The Tell, Thanksgiving, and my clients. That is all. I've never experienced a November like this before - I am enjoying it.

Shalom.

Too Much is Almost Enough

2011-11-13T07:01:00.003-05:00

I'm enjoying the intricate planning and preparation that accompanies hosting the Thanksgiving feast. I love working on projects of all kinds, the more labor intensive, the better. Thanksgiving is all about adundance, about too much of everything; in other words, the mother of all labor intensive feast days.

I'm going with the flow, making too many lists. Very fun.

My plan is strategic. For instance, I'm buying the groceries in stages. A "perfect" Thanksgiving involves lots of leftovers - there are whole categories of menus on the Food Network app devoted to leftovers which are, in a certain way, as important as the feast itself. To feed a tableful of hungry people AND have many leftovers means there are going to be a lot of groceries! My fridge will be overflowing, a chilly, white cornocopia of sorts. Hence, two big trips to Whole Foods.

For a perfectly overabundant T-day feast, there should be one or two too many guests jammed into the available space, the kids' table in another room. Here at the chateau the table will be full but not overflowing, a quorum if not critical mass. Though I'm going to take Wednesday off from work so I have two days to cook the feast, there's no doubt the kitchen here at the chateau will be utter chaos before the meal is done and ready to be served.

It dawned on me yesterday that Thanksgiving is a prosperity ritual. For the first time ever I am fully participating, enjoying every minute, feeling a whole lot of gratitude, too. It's about time! Oh yeah!

Contemplating T-day

2011-11-12T08:22:00.003-05:00

As a part of planning the Thanksgiving feast I will host at the chateau, I've been thinking about the first thanksgiving. When I was growing up, it was portrayed as a friendly meeting between the Europeans and Indians, a feast in which the two cultures made common cause. The Europeans were always described as being gracious and civilized, politely hosting the "savages."

All that changed during the 1960s after which the popular historical narrative was more about how the superior, greedy, ruthlessly sophisticated Europeans invaded and decimated the naive, gentle, trusting indigenous people, killed them with their muskets and such. We were the bad guys, the Indians were the good guys.

These days a much different picture of that time has captured the imagination of historians. Now we're told that the Europeans were spindly, sickly and rather brutal, yes, but incapable on their own of vanquishing the Indians who, as it turns out, were healthy, stealthy, whip smart and quite capable of taking care of themselves. It was smallpox that got them. What historians believe is that the American continent was well populated prior to the arrival of the Pilgrims. Smallpox killed tens of thousands. All hail the potent virus - it was here before humankind and will carry on long after we're gone.

So much for the sophisticated weapons of the white people. Hell, those muskets were so crude, the person firing one was just as likely to blow his own head off as hit a target more than a couple of feet away. The Europeans had all kinds of diseases that are the result of malnutrition. They suffered miserably in Europe, on the boat journey to this continent, and forever after that. They were almost always hungry and cold, riddled with fevers during the humid summers, suffering from cholera, malaria, and food poisoning. The Pilgrims feared for their lives. Even though the mini Ice Age was just winding down in Europe, these people had never seen anything like a Noreaster. Yes they were brutal. Also sickly, weak, and afraid. How nice of the Indians to sit down and feast with them. The Iroquois were tall, slender and fit. They knew what to eat and what to avoid. They lived well off the land. My goodness, the Pilgrims must have appeared disgusting to them, hardly the sort to eat dinner with!

We human beings like to travel. We came out of Africa a couple million years ago, never stopped. Too bad the Pilgrims brought the pox with them to the new land. I wonder how things might have developed without that virus?

Have a wonderful Saturday, y'all. Shalom.

Numbers

2011-11-11T07:37:00.004-05:00

Today has been proclaimed Nigel Tufnel day - that is so funny, I think. Women on the verge of giving birth are hoping today is it. Of course very pregnant women hope every day is it.

We homo sapiens love numbers. Math is a universal language, yes? Because really today could be represented by any number. I'm sure the Mayans didn't think of this as 11.11.11. Or maybe they did - they were savvy with numbers as were the tribes of Arabia, China, and the knot typing tribes of the Andes mountains in South America. Math is so neat and tidy, at the beginning levels that is. 2 + 2 = 4. End of story. If only the rest of life were so simple.

I'm partaking of the One Day on Earth project in which video from every country, taken today, is gathered, after which, in a session of nearly never ending hell for the editors, they put the clips together. They made the same kind of documentary on 10.10.10. Asking everyone to participate is very Age of Aquarius, I love it!

The Tell continues to evolve. I'm thinking of it as a TV series now, staring Tamara Taylor as Vega. That would be perfect casting. I'm also trying hard to read Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy by John LeCarre as this book is supposed to be a classic spy novel. I'm struggling to enjoy it - maybe I'll get into it. I'm far more interested in historical accounts of the Cold War which I remember vividly from my childhood. We used to practice ducking and covering in our grade school classrooms. Really? Crouch down when the atomic bombs explode and all will be well? We were so naive then!

Happy 11.11.11. May your day be as lucky as the numerical sequence on the calendar. So may it be! Cheers.

The Tell

2011-11-09T09:00:00.003-05:00

I'm a little worried about the protagonist of my alleged novel. She has just been thrown into a Yemeni jail, busted by the border guard as she attempted to enter the country from across the water in Djibouti. Though a top-notch spy: master of disguise, IQ of 160, speaks many languages, holds a Ph.D. in cultural anthropology, her problem is that her face gives her away every time. She can not control her facial expressions. It's a big problem. After a series of ho-hum assignments she finally talks her boss into allowing her to use her formidable talents and intelligence for something more exciting.

She's in trouble now, bloody hell. Since I'm allegedly making this up as I go along, I could write angels into the story, or Harry Potter could show up out of the nowhere to spirit my protagonist out of jail with a wave of his wand. A meteor could crash into desert, set up a supernatural dust storm in which she could escape. The choices are endless and yet even as I think about the many ways I could get her out of there, in jail she remains. Go figure. It's interesting how this form of writing, whatever you want to call it, takes on a life of its own. No wonder it's so addictive.

I spent yesterday afternoon with a friend who is REALLY is a writer. His short stories are published and he's deep into his novel. When he talks about his writing, it's clear he knows what he's doing. There is such a craft involved in writing - wow. What I'm doing is more like contact improv, while what he does at the keyboard can authentically be called writing.

However daunting this revelation might be, I say damn the torpedos! Full speed ahead! I can't abandon poor Vega as she sits in that awful Yemeni jail. Somehow I have to get her out of there. Hence, onwards and upwards to day ten of NaNoWriMo! (Thanks, Mr. Farragut, for the words.)

May the rest of you enjoy a much nicer day than poor Vega!

Into the Blood

2011-11-08T07:46:00.008-05:00

"All My Relations: an expression that asserts the basic philosophy of many Native Americans, according to which plants, stones, two-leggeds, animals, sky, earth, moon, spirit helpers, ancestors and most significantly, the Great Spirit are related; good health results from harmony between all beings."

One of my best things is teaching one-on-one. I've taught groups, too, though I would say in that setting I am just OK. As a personal teacher, tutor, mentor, initiator, I'm completely at ease. Like making bouilliabaise, taking pictures, and doing bodywork, being a teacher fits, it works, it is one of my best things.

Last night, I brought a shaman into the blood of our lineage. She is a very powerful shaman who has studied with me for several years. I taught her everything I know; she in turn has shown me a great many things. It has been a fruitful collaboration.

"Bringing into the blood" is a phrase that comes from my teacher of Mongolian shamanism. Though it is a rite of initiation, it sounds more dramatic than it actually is. The first part of the ritual involves talking about our ancestors. Once we began that conversation, we never stopped, not during the shamanic walk at sunset, nor in front of the ceremonial fire, or even as we feasted afterwards.

We greatly expanded the usual definition to include ancestors of spirit and karma as well as ancestors of blood. We named tribes living and long departed from every part of this beautiful planet, we named rivers, mountain ranges, animals and weather, proudly claimed them as ancestors. We are children of earth and sky, and everything between. That isn't a royal "we" - you're a child of earth and sky, too, you know.

It's an essentially human act, naming the ancestors. We name them in the Torah and other holy books, in the great Icelandic sagas, in Russian novels and American TV soap operas. Lineage is very important to we homo sapiens, always has been. Shamans all over the world have brought others into the blood with this simple act of naming the truth: we are, all of us, inextricably interwoven with each other.

It was a gorgeous early sunset on a perfect late fall day in DC, a beautiful environment in which to remember all our relations. And so we remembered last night. We are part of the family of humans, animals, plants, stars, clouds and rock. By remembering this, we adopt one another, become family. Only when we remember all our relations can we gracefully undertake the work of mediating between the worlds. Memory is powerful, you'd better believe it.

You and I? We're related, too. Oh yeah. Shalom.

An Ocean of Words

2011-11-05T18:50:00.008-04:00

Not only am I writing a book, allegedly anyway, but I also seem compelled to write about the book here. It's only day 6; perhaps I'll get tired of doing both. There's a way in which I hope I will tire of the process. It's addictive; I see how writers' lives can veer way out of balance, as they turn inwards to the exclusion of the rest of life.

I think about Isaac Newton, squirreling himself away in a small cottage out in the country while a bout of the plague ran rampant through the city. For a year he was mostly alone. He was miraculously in possession of a 600 page book of plain paper which was very rare in the 17th century. He noticed sunlight breaking into rainbows as it passed through a crystal on the windowsill. He watched the natural order outside his cabin. He saw things, figured it out, then wrote. The people who know a whole lot more about his life than I do say that during this time he made his greatest discoveries about physics. Thank goodness he had the book, and that he wrote it all down!

Writing and reading are very recent developments in the history of our species; the art is still unfolding. It always blows me away to remember that the classics of western literature were written by hand, with a pen. It's almost unthinkable now, that War and Peace, for instance, was written by hand. Typewriters are a very recent invention that changed everything about the art of writing. Writing used to be the domain of a privileged few - now everyone writes, and almost everyone publishes their writing. It's interesting to think about.

Similar to my attempt to learn the bass, doing this "fiction" writing is more about process than result. The same is true in my painting and drawing. The end result is not nearly as interesting as the process. I love the dance of art, the act of creating. At heart I am a performance artist. The paintings, drawings, this blog, and now, the book, are more like residue after the fact, disposable, in my opinion. I wonder if that makes any sense.

I've plateaued in some way or another with the writing. I'm still writing, but what's coming through me is Deuteronomy. I'm immersed in describing, including the smallest details, all the rules my protagonist lives by. She has a rule for everything, whew! I made the commitment to go with the flow of the writing, and so I carry on, but oy, the flow is kind of boring at the moment. I'm far ahead of the benchmark in terms of words; maybe I'll lay off from writing for awhile, see if a brief rest stokes my imagination a bit.

Enough writing on writing! While I sit here contemplating, the world is ongoing outside the front door. I'm going to get out there this morning, engage with this beautiful fall day. For today, no NaNoWriMo. Yeah. L'chaim, y'all!!

Busted!

2011-11-04T09:06:00.006-04:00

I added the emphasis on self development.

"When we seek happiness through accumulation, either outside of ourselves - from other people, relationships, or material goods - or from our own self-development, we are missing the essential point. In either case we are trying to find completion. But according to Buddhism, such a strategy is doomed. Completion comes not from adding another piece to ourselves but from surrendering our ideas of perfection." --Mark Epstein

I am a hoarder of internal development! Who knew? I did not, I really didn't! This quote, off the Buddha page on Facebook, has rocked my world. Holy cow, who knew? One of my FB friends (she writes the Pollinatrix blog) said it perfectly, "Good point. The last thing I need to do is add ANOTHER piece to myself!"

Nor I.

When I read the above, a vision appeared in my head, of the inside of my head/heart, stacked high with ancient Rolling Stone and New Yorker magazines, a thousand crumbling books, millions of tiny and not so tiny ritual objects, also records and CDs, art supplies, piled to the ceiling in a dark, dusty space through which I twist and turn on narrow labrynthine paths. The vision is rather hilarious as I love nothing better than getting rid of old stuff - externally! Internally ... hmmm ... Dr. Epstein has certainly got me thinking.

All the better then that I spent two hours writing nonstop this morning, a process that clears my head, at least so far. It's only day 4. The writing has developed a life force all its own. The words pour out while I stare at the computer screen in amazement and amusement. The things I am learning about myself - well, wow. It is a very cleansing process, the results of which are total crap, not that I've reread a single word. I am cleaning out the closets of my mind this month. Maybe it could be an interesting story if I knew the craft even a little bit. As it is, it is simply raw feed from the satellite transmitter inside my brain. Really bad!

It's also crazy fun and perhaps by doing this month of writing I will bring my mind/heart into more of a balance with my external environment in which there is plenty, but not too much. Ya think?

Glenn I need to pop in to the site and make sure you and I are buddies. I do I do I DO want to read what you're writing. Oh yeah!

Thanksgiving

2011-11-03T07:56:00.005-04:00

Day three of NaNoWriMo: I am getting into a rhythm of writing early in the morning and last thing at night. It's so much fun! My protagonist is a criminal, I think - or maybe a spy - not sure yet. Writing in this way is as fun as lucid dreaming, as fun as a feel-good trance. No wonder writer's block is such a miserable experience. Fiction writing is very intoxicating; of course people become addicted. When they can't write, well, whoa! It can't be fun.

The holiday season is upon us. Hence, yesterday I ordered an "heirloom" turkey. Marketing people are truly nefarious - I mean really, "heirloom?" Like a tomato or a rose? What it means is that the turkey is a regular bird, not bred like most commercial turkeys. My holiday turkey will not be built like Jane Mansfield, will not topple over onto its face because it is so grotesquely breast-heavy. This makes me happy. There are those who claim that "heirloom" turkeys are tough and not as delicious as commercial turkeys. I don't care. There are 25 restaurants within a few blocks of the chateau. If dinner doesn't turn out, we can abandon it, go out.

Slinging hundreds of raw turkeys at surly customers, a part of my job as catering coordinator when I worked at Whole Foods, turned me into a T-day Scrooge. For years afterwards on Thanksgiving I stayed home, ate rice and vegetables - alone - and watched Hugh Grant movies. Fortunately, I've let go of my grudge against the holiday, slowly, over time. Last year and the year before I attended the feasts of others, surprised myself by having fun. This year I will plunge deeper into the feng shui of the holiday by cooking and entertaining here at the chateau. I very much look forward to it.

Yesterday the Sufi acupuncturist said he sees me happy, productive, and healthy during the decade of my 60s. He said he sees me really coming into myself in the decade to come. Indeed I am happier and healthier in many ways than I've ever been, and I'm not even 59 yet. What a great blessing he gave me, promising me a wonderful decade ahead.

Life is good and I am grateful! Hence, the "heirloom" turkey, a feast at the chateau. Onwards to T-day. Oh yeah.

This pic is for Annie, home from the hospital, thank God.

Why not?

2011-11-02T08:35:00.004-04:00

I can not, in all honesty, say I'm writing a novel. Novels have structure, novels have a plot. Though of course they allow for spontaneity, good novelists hold the big picture in mind when they sit down to write.

It would just be pretentious to say I'm writing a novel. More true is to say I'm sitting down every morning to write 1,666 words. So far, what I'm doing is stream of consciousness, more like automatic writing than anything else. As with automatic writing, I'm learning things about myself. Today I figured out I like dialogue, and I love describing the outfits of the characters, which is so weird as I am completely NON fashionable in every sense of the word. Weird yet fun.

Though I have, up till this moment, believed that blog posts were an act of spontaneity, I'm realizing I actually think about what I want to write here and on Chateau Seven, my other blog. By the time I put my fingers on the keyboard, I'm fairly clear what's going to come out. Sometimes I surprise myself, sometimes.

I don't spend a lot of time writing or editing here, even less with the "novel" I'm writing. If I look back on what I've written, I'm afraid I'll get stuck, self censor, or worse, become embarrassed by how bad it is. So I write, then turn to other things.

I'm going to carry on with NaNoWriMo, not in the hope that I'm suddenly going to become a novelist, holy cow no way, but as a process of self discovery. It isn't the worst way to approach this, right?

It's pretty fun, actually, knowing that even as long as I've been around (closing in on age 59), there are still so many things I can try. Why not?

This shit actually DOES write itself.

2011-11-01T09:17:00.005-04:00

East Capitol Street on Halloween is mayhem. Not fun.

The good news is, so far (first day), I am having no problem writing fiction because, well, I'm just making it up! So I would not become self-conscious or yield to the urge to self-censor, I decided before committing a single word to "paper" that I would NOT reread the text, for the time being at least.

It's clear I'm still working through leftover trauma around my terrible marriage. It's kind of embarrassing. Only now, sixteen years after my divorce, I'm getting at a deep level how BAD that relationship was. Bloody hello. It takes writing a novel to figure it out? Wow.

The bad news is that I'm back to struggling with meditation. Sigh. My mind is no longer pure and clear when I think about the novel. Indeed the characters are rattling around inside my head, clamoring for my attention. In addition to my relationships with spirit guides, animal totems and the dead - and of course friends, clients, neighbors and family, I must now contend with a bunch of unruly characters, waiting to be written about. For heaven's sake!

I'm kidding of course. I'll go back to the Vipassana techniques during meditation, that's fine with me.

Writing a novel is fun! I highly recommend it! Happy November! Cheers.

However, rest and refuge can always be found at the house on Tennessee Avenue.

Go to the light.

2011-10-31T07:16:00.005-04:00

Maybe it's because I have an ongoing relationship with the beneficient ancestors, or perhaps I'm just prematurely curmudgeonly (is that a word?) or it might be that my dislike of Halloween is due to experiences I had as a bartender. (Besides St. Patrick's Day and New Year's Eve, Halloween is the worst night of the year to bartend. People get ugly in so many ways.)

On Halloween, when the veil is thin, instead of making contact with the wise ancestors, we purposely make room in many ways for the less wonderful members of the community of the dead. I find this practice very odd. Blood, guts, zombies, vampires - oh man, disturbed spirits really love it when they see us dressed up like that. They love the evils of a hard-core sugar high, followed by a serious blood sugar crash. They love scaring small children, also love all acts of a destructive nature whether large or small. All kinds of vandalism feed these spirits. They are not very nice.

According to my cosmology, the dead are not that different from the living. There are great, wonderful, loving ancestors who stand by at this time of year to offer guidance to those who seek it, and then there are the greasy, unevolved, creepy dead. We play with these not very nice spirits on Halloween. People say it's fun. Really? I don't get it.

Following is a very loving, compassionate ritual to help ghosts cross over to a place where they might find healing and renewal. It is the work of Pomegranate Doyle, a great teacher and former colleague of mine. I've used it many times. It always works. Afterwards, the space that has been cleared feels lovely, calm and welcoming. I published this rite a few years ago for Tess of the blog Willow Manor. Here it is again

Tomorrow Halloween will be done, then it's on to the holiday season. Onwards & upwards, oh yeah.

RITUAL TO HELP GHOSTS CROSS OVER

What you'll need:
Someone to work with (you need two people for this ritual)
Black or white candle
Two face-sized hand mirrors. They do not have to be fancy - drugstore mirrors work just fine.
A black cloth big enough to wrap around the mirrors
String
Smudge stick or a dried sprig of rosemary, or bells, singing bowls, or salt water (to cleanse the space afterwards)
A sense of humor
The ability to behave as if you know what you're doing

Prepare:
Choose a place in the house where you feel comfortable. You could go to the most haunted space, but if it creeps you out to work there, the ritual won't work as well. Let your intuition guide you.

Light the candle. If you feel the presence of the ghosts, proceed with the order of the ritual. If you don't feel them you might have to "wake them up." That involves going to the haunted spaces and clapping your hands, snapping your fingers, knocking on the walls, saying things like "Hey! WAKE UP!" Again, let your intuition guide you.

Order of ritual:
Place the hand mirrors back to back so that the mirror surfaces are facing outwards. Hold the mirrors tightly together between the two of you, at the level of your faces.

One of you will be working with the ghost(s) themselves, the other person will be calling in loving ancestors of the ghosts who will guide the lost spirits to wherever it is they go after death.

The person who works with the ancestors simply needs to be sincere in calling them to come to "the gate" (the mirrors form a portal through which the dead can pass on). Appeal to them in terms of how they once loved the ghosts, let them know the ghosts are stuck and how much they need the help of loving ancestors. Be firm, yet respectful. The ancestors will come, I promise.

The person who works with the ghosts needs to be more "in your face." What I do is look into the mirror and speak plainly and loudly. The point is to make the ghosts understand they are DEAD and it's time to move on. Ghosts are no smarter than you or I, and they're just as deluded. I loved the movie The Sixth Sense because Bruce Willis is so perfect as a ghost clueless about what has happened to him.

I used to hold the newspaper up to the mirror and point out the date. I always say, "Look at how I'm dressed!" The last time I did this I held my ipod up to the mirror and said, "Do you know what this is? OF COURSE NOT, because it's 2011!!" When I feel the ghost finally understands he/she IS dead, I tell them their ancestors are present and ready to guide them to a place of healing and renewal. I tell them it's time to go as if there is no other choice. The more conviction you can muster, the better.

When you feel the presence of the ancestors (feels very calm, wise and angelic) and when the ghosts seem to be aware of what's happening, both of the living people should begin to blow into the mirrors, each from his/her respective side of the gate. Often one person will feel warm while the other feels cold, though that doesn't always happen. You don't have to blow as hard as you can, but consistently. It might take two minutes or it might take ten minutes. You don't have to blow for an hour though - ten minutes is the absolute maximum amount of time I've ever had to blow, and that was for a LOT of ghosts.

At some point it will feel like Something Has Happened. Both people doing the ritual will know when the ghosts have crossed. Something in the room changes. Check in with each other.

Trust your intuition!

After Something Has Happened, immediately turn the mirrors to face each other and hold them together tightly. Blow out the candle. Both of the living say out loud "THE GATE IS CLOSED." Mean it when you say it. Wrap the mirrors in the black cloth and tie them securely together with string.

Some people bury the mirrors or throw them in the river. I like to get them outside of the house but I'll admit I've never buried them. After awhile the energy fades and they're just mirrors again. At that point I use them to apply mascara or whatever.

After the gate is closed and secured, cleanse the house by lighting a smudge stick and waving it around the whole house, or ringing bells or sprinkling salt water in the corners. Open the windows and let the wind blow through the house, unless it's too cold. Imagine that all the energy that doesn't belong in the house has dispersed.

Then imagine a secure boundary about the outside of the house. Sometimes it "looks" like a soap bubble, nice and shiny, encircling the space. Turn on all the lights in the house, play music or sing, laugh, dance around like an idiot. When the house feels full of living energy, you can turn off the electronics.

Eat something and have something non-alcoholic to drink.

That's it ... good luck!

And HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!!

Blank

2011-10-30T07:36:00.008-04:00

As a young person, I loved reading novels. Growing up it was Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden and classics like Little Women, of course. I read Ivanhoe because there was a character named Rebecca in it, but I don't remember a thing about it. I think I read it to please my father.

As a young adult I found authors I loved so much I read every one of their books, such as Walker Percy, Gunter Grasse, Don DeLillo and Margaret Atwood, for instance. Later I got hooked on the central and south American magical realists, like Julio Cortezar, Gabriel Garcia Marquez and the great Isabele Allende.

Right around age thirty, my interest in novels evaporated. I started reading non-fiction then; I've never looked back. People lend me novels all the time, saying, "I know you don't read fiction, but THIS book ..." I open these books but try as I might, can not get myself interested in the characters or plots. After a few pages, I sigh and shake my head sadly, put down the fiction, pick up my history, biography or science books, with which I am fascinated, spellbound. There is so much to learn!

Of course there are exceptions, for instance I read all the Harry Potter books. I've read a couple of Dan Brown books because they captured the public imagination. Should say I read them as an exercise in sociology because that dude is a terrible writer, holy cow. But he knows exactly how to put his finger on the societal pulse beat of the moment. For that I admire his work.

Right now on the iphone I am plodding my way through the Song of Ice and Fire series by George R.R. Martin. Those books are very fun, a guilty pleasure, like reading People magazine.

Because I signed up for National Novel Writing Month, I've been trying to imagine a plot, I've been inviting my mind to create some characters. It's rather hilarious that whenever I try to "see" my novel, my mind becomes a total blank, an empty canvas, a pure, clear, tranquil space. This morning while meditating, instead of the usual ways of focusing (such as on my breath, or using a mantra), I simply opened my mind to allow room for the novel to come into being. Every thought vanished within seconds!

It's likely I will not be writing a novel in November. I'll write something, but I'm dubious it will be fiction. However I am very grateful to have discovered the absolutely greatest meditation technique I've ever used. And it's funny, too. Oh yeah!

River of Words

2011-10-29T07:45:00.006-04:00

My mother, with whom I had a rather distant relationship (we mostly didn't "get" each other), often encouraged me to write. She felt I had the knack. Her encouragement was surprising and notable, since she generally didn't focus on my strengths. I took in what she said. I wrote. Letters, journals, stories and, as soon as the internets were up and running, I started blogging. That was almost a decade ago. Now I write two blogs. So indeed whether or not what I write is GOOD, the truth is, I am a writer.

I was thinking about my mother yesterday after I signed up for National Novel Writing Month. It's a funny thing for me to do since I don't even read novels, well not often anyway. But I thought of her encouragement, signed up, had a laugh. It might turn out like my attempt to learn to play the bass; something I always thought I could do, but then when I tried, it turned out I was not built for the job. Oh well. In the case of NaNoWriMo, I might stall out and not write anything. But I'm going to give it a go anyway, why not?

Running a quick errand after work yesterday, I was thinking of my mother fondly. I came across a stack of books on the sidewalk (people do that here all the time: clear off a bookshelf, put what they no longer want to keep out for others to pick up). In the stack I saw "The Family of Man," an old book of photographs. This was one of my mother's very favorite books. Of course I picked it up!

In some way I feel my mother is rooting for me from the other side of the veil. Seeing that book yesterday of all days made me smile. Hey, thanks, Elizabeth! I'm going to spend a month writing with abandon, just as you suggested long ago. I'll let you know how it goes.

Wish me luck? Thanks to y'all as well. Is the pen mightier than the sword? We shall see!

Surprises

2011-10-27T08:21:00.004-04:00

Back in the good old days, I had curly hair. Well, I did. Even just a few years ago my hair was curly. Then it grew out, unrestrained. My hair was so happy to be given free rein. As it got longer, it became wavy, then finally more straight than anything else. I figured it was the length that made it straight. Imagine my surprise yesterday when I rose from the chair at the hair salon, my hair much shorter and layered extensively, but still straight even though Richard, my hair guy, applied all the correct curl producing product, fouffed and fluffed and did his professional best to bring back the curl. He was as surprised as I was.

The haircut is very Mad Men. It was time for a change; I was so over the hippie hair. But what I imagined was a poufy head of curls. Hmm. How weird. Oh well.

It's a gray, soggy day in Washington DC. Cozy, autumnal. My plans include nothing more than receiving a massage, later on doing massage for a couple of clients. I'll have plenty of time to think about how change is ongoing and unavoidable, how life would be truly boring if this were not true.

I have straight hair? I know in the big scheme of things this is not especially remarkable. But it was a big surprise. Wow, or should I say whoa? You never know what's going to happen next. Oh yeah.

Life long learning

2011-10-26T08:32:00.006-04:00

At least two or three times a year I am compelled to post the poem below. Oh yeah, I have had such GREAT teachers, and I am grateful.

One thing I realized this week is that I still have great teachers even though they don't look exactly like the teachers to whom I'm usually referring when I post the poem. These days my teachers look a whole lot like my clients, neighbors, friends and family.

I learned a lot this week by way of smooth and not so smooth interactions with my current roster of teachers. Wow. It will take awhile to integrate the lessons of the past week. Wisdom is hard earned and slow to accumulate, but today what I can say for sure is that I learned a lot about my attention span and stamina this past week. I also learned that in some ways I'm shamanically adept, but with other traditional shamanic practices, I'm clumsy as an ox.

Are oxen clumsy?

Because I had such great teachers, as a teacher I have always been eager to pass on to my students Every Single Thing I know. This week I realized fully this is absolutely unnecessary. I don't have to teach everything I know, not ever, and even though there are things shamans have always done, that does not mean I have to do them. Wow, what a revelation.

In many ways, even though I've had great teachers and learned many things, it's also true that I'm still treading on thin ice. Indeed.

Gratitude to Old Teachers

When we stride or stroll across the frozen lake,
We place our feet where they have never been.
We walk upon the unwalked. But we are uneasy.
Who is down there but our old teachers?

Water that once could take no human weight -
We were students then - holds up our feet,
And goes on ahead of us for a mile.
Beneath us the teachers, and around us the stillness.

~~Robert Bly

De-frazzle

2011-10-25T09:09:00.005-04:00

At the end of my work day yesterday, I walked the circuit around Lincoln Park, snapped a few pics of the sunset. I did not engage with anyone, not humans, or dogs, or birds, not even the trees. A brief wave at the Cloud People was all I had the wherewithall to manage. After that I closed and locked the front door to the chateau, spent the evening blissfully alone.

Sometimes - even still - I wonder why, in this lifetime, I was not able to successfully partner. Sometimes I blame myself, feel defective, lonely and such because of my spinsterhood. But after a busy week like last week I can see underneath the self-blame. Truth is, I was built for solitude. Being single keeps me healthy and happy. This is actually not a defect. Hmm.

Last night I slept long and hard, dreamed many dreams. When I finally woke up this morning, the thought came to me that when I don't get enough time to recharge away from the realm of others, my brain gets brittle. All that grey goo inside my skull shrivels, dries out. I "saw" my brain, huddled in the corner of my skull, shivering, shrunken and puny. I'm sure this is not literally true, but metaphorically? Oh yeah.

This morning my brain feels bouncy, plump, juicy and ready for a day spent with people I love among the magnificent trees at the National Arboretum. The weather in DC is supposed to be perfect; highs in the upper 60s today with abundant sunshine.

Looking forward to re-engaging with the world of humans today, in a limited way, since mostly we will be hanging out with trees. Who doesn't love a big ole convo of trees? I mean really!

Too busy to think

2011-10-24T08:44:00.003-04:00

There are lots of people who are as busy as I've been this week, every week. How do they do it? Whoa.

I usually have plenty of time to process, ponder, contemplate and reflect. I need many hours in a week to walk around, alone, take note of the world. When I'm as busy as I've been this past week, I have absolutely nothing smart to say about anything. Inside my head it's all static. I'm a dud.

My friends depart for San Francisco on Wednesday, I will receive an Auryvedic massage on Thursday. My work schedule this weekend is a bit slower than last week. I so look forward to a less hectic pace, even though this past week has been so much fun.

When I don't have time to think, I'm stupid. In a few days, when my head can stretch out and process everything that has taken place recently, maybe then I'll have something good to say. I hope so!

Guess who's coming to dinner

2011-10-23T09:00:00.004-04:00

What makes a successful dinner party? There are obvious components of course - good food, candlelight, music perhaps. Ordinarily a successful dinner party depends who is invited, and how they are seated around the table. It can be a very tricky chemistry.

The Literary Feast throws the common wisdom of purposefully inviting like-minded people into the wind. I love that!

[A literary feast is] a fundraiser presented by the Capitol Hill Community Foundation: 33 dinner parties held in homes across Capitol Hill all on one evening. Each dinner features food and fun related to a specific book (reading is optional-- it’s a dinner, not a discussion!) A community-wide dinner party, a chance to mingle with new and old friends, all for a great cause.

Those who want to participate choose from a list of books, buy tickets without knowing where or with whom they will be feasting. Last night I only knew two of our guests. It could have been awkward or dicey or downright uncomfortable, but it was so much fun! Couples who came together purposely seated themselves apart from one another, so they could talk with people they didn't already know. Everyone made themselves at home immediately, something that isn't that hard to do in the house on Tennessee Avenue, but still, I was impressed!

Dinner was tasty, but last night was more about the gathering than anything else. I'm a bit weary from all the cooking yesterday and from the energy I had to generate to successfully hang out with people I've never met (I am such an introvert!)

It was well worth it. You see, THIS is why I love homo sapiens. When we're good, when we're willing to take a chance, have some fun, do some good in the world, we are SO good. Last night I witnessed good cheer and good will amongst a colorful variety of my fellow humans. Experiences like this are encouraging.

Life is good and I am grateful. L'chaim!

Thanks, Prometheus - and Julia, you too!

2011-10-22T08:03:00.008-04:00

I did not enjoy cooking until I was well into my thirties. What was all that about? One of the great gifts of my marriage was learning to cook. My husband was a great cook; he encouraged me to give it a go so often I finally did - and discovered how much fun it is.

I love chopping, stirring, bringing to a boil, then simmering. Equally satisfying is mincing garlic, listening to the white wine sizzle when I pour it all of a sudden into the pan, sniffing the delicious aroma of the fennel, leeks and celery as they soften in olive oil with bay leaves, star anise and other spices. It's a rush watching the soup turn brick red from the tomatoes and saffron. Oh yeah. This is why I love to cook. I fancy myself some kind of mad scientist (of sorts) anytime I indulge in the alchemy of nutrition. Later on, people will sit around the table, partake of the results of my efforts. That's always the best part.

Today I'm brewing a big ole batch of Mississippi Goddamn** Bouillabaise for the Literary Feast dinner we are hosting tonight at the house on Tennessee Avenue. It's for a good cause, though I don't quite remember what that cause is.

I'm thinking about the discovery of fire which necessarily preceeded the discovery of cooking. According to the people who create the stories we call history, roasting was discovered by accident when animals fell into roaring firepits. The people around the pit were hungry, so when the flames died down, they ate. Can you imagine the scene and how quickly the word spread afterwards? Boiling, by comparison, was a much more sophisticated discovery involving fireproof cauldrons and the inspiration to add water to whatever was being cooked. When did baking begin? I don't know the answer but it's interesting to think about.

By now we in my society are very precious about cooking, well, at least I am. It's a precise art, it is. Too much salt wrecks any dish, though not enough produces bland, boring food. Onions must be sauteed before adding them to soups, to keep them from tasting bitter. I have a lot rules around all of this, of course and may I say I'm not the only one!

I've made the rouille and the stock for the soup. Pretty soon I will add the seafood, finish with a few tablespoons of Pernod. Et voila! Dinner.

May all your hungers be satisfied! May you be well fed! So may it be. Shalom.

The theme of our dinner is Nina Simone's autobiography, "I Put a Spell on You."

The After Place

2011-10-20T09:28:00.003-04:00

They simply called it "the after place." I saw many friends and family I hadn't seen in a long time, though I now can't remember who was there specifically. There was a joyfulness, a sense of connection, reunion, and healing. And it was beautiful, though I couldn't tell you why. No pain, no flopping around - wow. It was a remarkable experience, well worth remembering.

The dream was so powerful that I swam hard, pushed myself through several thick layers up to a state of complete awakeness. The after place, eh? In the moment of wakefulness I promised myself I would remember every detail, though I didn't write it down and now of course I can't remember much more than the feeling. I'll stick with the feeling, thank you very much. Beautiful!

I've dreamed of the after place before. It is always a place of peace. Sometimes there is a soft and steady rain falling. People gather to welcome me, but it isn't a raucous party, more like a sweet, quiet gathering. In the past, when I had these dreams I always felt the awe, but accompanying that, there was always a sense of wistfulness. Not last night, not at all. I was glad to be there.

I'm thinking this is a life-stage thing, shifting from feeling wistful at the prospect of mortality to a nice, comfortable acceptance and trust that when it comes around, whenever that might be, the experience will be more lovely than anything else. Who knows?

Today, though, is a great day to be alive in Washington DC. The sun is shining, Brother Wind is rushing around exuberantly, the air is crisp and bright. My friends and I are going to go for coffee, then down to see Andy Warhol's "Shadows" exhibit at the Hirschhorn. From there we will wander, take pictures, seek refreshment. I foresee an early evening convo at the Matchbox Bar. Oh yeah.

Life is good, really good. When it's time to leave this form, I'm assured in my dreams that will be good, too. I marvel and give thanks for this complicated existence and the mysteries that lie beyond.

L'chaim, y'all. Have a peaceful Thursday.

Old Friends

2011-10-18T08:25:00.006-04:00

Tomorrow after work I'll head over to the Dubliner where I'll meet up with my friends John and Paula. Friends? They are so much more than friends, they are family. You know what I'm talking about? We met when I was living at Lake Tahoe at the very beginning of the 1980s. We "recognized" each other immediately as family-friends-clan-tribe, and we've been close friends ever since.

They live in San Francisco, which means we don't get a lot of actual time together. True, too, is that we let months slip by sometimes inbetween phone calls or even emails. It doesn't matter. Getting into a groove with one another is seamless, effortless. We don't have to try or work to stay close, or to catch up.

Not saying I never get on their nerves. Everyone who is willing to be a close friend has to put up with my tendency towards officiousness. They don't really care much. When I get obnoxious, without putting any extra spin on it, they simply tell me to knock it off. It is such a loving willingness they have to accept me exactly as I am. It's luxurious, and very rare.

They are whip smart and funny as hell. Paula has explained things to me that I could never have found language to describe. For instance, I always knew I disliked digital clocks, but had no idea why until she explained that time is not a number, it's cyclic, hence the analog clock on which the hands spin round and round (clockwise, don't you know), is a much clearer way to deal with time. Oh yeah. Brilliant, hey? John clearly predicted my association with Reclaiming long before I began my training in the craft. He "saw" it. Wow.

We will no doubt spend time at the Matchbox bar. We're going to go to the Hirschhorn to see Andy Warhol's abstract paintings. We'll walk around and take pictures (they share my love of photography). I will show them Eastern Market and the chateau, of course.

I'm not saying here that there's anything wrong with friendships/relationships that require a lot of work to maintain. That kind of connection can be very satisfying, and I have friends for whom I feel a deep love even though being friends is so strenuous. But with John and Paula, it's smooth. It has been smooth for thirty years. Oh man, I can't wait to see them.

To the miraculous nature of friendship! Cheers!!

Awakening

2011-10-16T09:39:00.005-04:00

Let me say straightaway that I'm not against corporations, even huge corporations. It depends on the company. Whole Foods (for whom I worked for a couple of years) is a really good company. They treat their employees well, are ethical in their business practices and make it possible for me to eat very high quality food. If not for Whole Foods, many of the organic farming laws and regulations would not be in place. Whole Foods has the heft to make that sort of thing happen.

Same goes for Ikea and Starbucks. Both of those companies donate money to great causes, treat their employees decently and sell products made from sustainable materials. I can afford to buy a new rug, made in America, if I need one. I can find a decent cup of coffee no matter where I am. These corporations serve the greater good, in my opinion.

Of course large corporations, when they do make mistakes, make big ole mistakes. But that's inevitable, yes?

Here's what I love about Occupy Wall Street: I love it that people are participating in our democracy, bringing individual points of view into the light of day, expressing their own frustrations with the lopsided nature of society. The reality of haves and the have-nots has always existed throughout history, but for most of history, in most locations, if the have-nots try to take a stand, they are silenced, jailed, killed.

In the U.S. allegedly we are allowed to express our opinions as long as we do it lawfully and peacefully. This is one of the things I love about America. Sometimes things get out of hand on one side or the other - that, too, is inevitable. But I like it that the American Way includes the right of every citizen to have a say.

As for Wall Street itself, that world is not something I understand. Gambling is so weird, at least for me. I lived at Lake Tahoe for a couple of years, during which I partook of the casino experience exactly once, losing all my money in the blink of an eye. After that I decided it would be a lot more fun to throw $20 bills out the car window. I realized the state of Nevada would quickly go broke if it were true that anyone can gamble and consistently win. Hmmm.

During the crash of 2008 I kept asking people, "Where did the money go?" No one could really explain it in a way that made sense to me. Did it evaporate, I would ask, and they said yes. Yes? Money can evaporate? Please explain.

A world in which barter was the norm for exchange would make a whole lot more sense to me. Money is a bizarre - and in the case of American money, really ugly. A few years ago the Mint decided to redesign our money. Instead of making it cool looking, they decided to increase the size of the presidential heads. I find this shift quite rude. Who wants to gaze into the face of Andrew Jackson? I mean really!

I would love to live in a world in which those who have money would spread it around to the people who have not had the same privileges, who are down and out for one reason or another. I would love to live in a world in which health care was not co-opted by pharmeceuticals and insurance companies, and was provided to all in a reasonable, fair and just way. I would love to live in a world where all were well fed.

It's such a fantasy! When people try to make that happen, it gets complicated. For some it becomes a scam, others are unfairly excluded, and the ones who have the money and privilege hoard all the excess so no one can benefit from it.

Don't ask me for answers. I have none. But I really love it that people, regular people, have come out of their homes, have gotten their asses off the couch, out from in front of their TVs, to express themselves. This is a time of awakening for the common man and woman. That is why I love Occupy Wall Street.

Shalom.

Here ye, here ye

2011-10-15T07:52:00.006-04:00

I can be a little bit of a jerk sometimes. I don't do it on purpose, nor am I usually conscious of what's going down until it's too late. Dang, man. As soon as I figure it out, that I've transgressed a boundary, behaved badly, or if I've in some minor way tried a pick a fight, I am very good at offering apologies.

You would think that, in this way, I would learn from the experience and move on. The other person almost always accepts the apology which means the episode is over. But no. I worry, I suffer, I flog myself (mentally) because somehow or another I believe I should have behaved perfectly. I should ALWAYS behave perfectly! Sometimes I am downright obsessed with guilt in the aftermath of what are truly minor transgressions even though, these days, I'm hardly ever really and truly mean. It's ridiculous actually because when other people behave without perfect aplomb towards me, I tend not to take it personally. I shrug it off and move on, but when I've snapped at another, bloody hello! You would think I had committed murder.

In Chinese medicine, small misbehaviors indicate an internal imbalance. The self-righteousness I was prone to earlier in life? The Sufi acupuncturist says that was due to lung heat. What a concept, hey? It's not a terrible character flaw, it is simply heat in the lungs. I don't even know what that means, but I like it, the idea that for those of us who mean well, small slips in civilized behavior can be treated with needles, moxa and/or herbs. Chinese medicine is no-fault medicine. I love that!

In addition to the end of my willingness to listen to complaints about weight, I'm adding a second decree: I'm going to stop apologizing. I mean I'm going to stop over-apologizing. When I'm an ass, I owe a sincere apology. It's important to pay attention, learn from the experience. But then, I will move on; I will cease and desist with apologing over and over and over again in an effort to redeem myself in the eyes of the person I offended. As if it's up to them! My goodness.

I got into the habit of apologizing after I left the witchy community. At the time it was a Really Good Habit because while I was involved in magic, I was a total bitch on a regular basis! I'm a lot nicer now. Time to break the annoying habit of over-apology, yes? I say YES.

If this post was offensive to anyone, I apologize. Once only, but sincerely. Onwards and upwards. Happy Saturday, y'all.

Rain and Roses

2011-10-13T09:22:00.005-04:00

Aging is confusing for we baby boomers, though I should say we are not the first, nor will we be the last, generation to find it bewildering. Maybe especially now it's challenging because our society is virulently ageist, also because we mature so early and age so late at this moment in evolution. It's easy to think, during the mid-40s, that somehow we will escape what is inevitable. Then we turn 50 and see that oh yeah, we're going to grow old - or die before that happens. One or the other, there is no third choice. In affluent 21st century America, we age quickly during the decade of the fifties.

My affection for the process of aging goes against the grain for many people of all ages. Youth is revered, old age despised. I don't understand. Every age has its challenges and problems, also its blessings. In late middle age (I think that's where I would place myself), we are liberated from so many concerns that were Terribly Important earlier in life. The hormonal imperative of young adulthood to be partnered, the biological clock ticking away, etc. all become nothing more than a vague memory after menopause (men have their own version of menopause, you know).

We're free, too, of the sense that we must ACHIEVE, climb ever higher on the ladder of success, whatever the hell that is. Earlier in life it seems necessary to be important in some way. What was THAT all about? Hmmm... I don't remember, though I know my ambitions around being a High Priestess were very acute. I would go for the jugular if I thought someone was about to surpass me in the hierarchy of priestessing. For heaven's sake.

I've been thinking recently that when I turn 60, there are a whole bunch of things I'm not going to do anymore. For instance, I've heard people talk about their weight for most of my life. I'm so over it. I was thinking, after 60, when anyone begins to complain about their weight, I'll stop 'em cold - nicely - and explain that I don't want to hear it. I'll smile, change the subject, and will not apologize. From then on, I will never ever again have to listen to that crap. Free at last!

Last night I realized a meteor could hit the planet or I could suddenly drop dead from something or another before I reach 60. In other words, what am I waiting for? As of today, October 13, 2011, if you're worried about your weight, tell someone else, please. Life is short and I don't want to hear it.

Late middle age is a wonderful time of life! There is a late bloom at this age, similar to the roses in DC, also the bulb flowers who - in the midst of the midatlantic autumn - bloom as if it were spring. I'm not a fan of the muggy, hot early fall we experience here, but I do like the metaphor of the late blooming rose, oh yeah.

Life is good - at every age, believe me, at every age. L'chaim. And Shalom.

The Ball

2011-10-12T08:32:00.006-04:00

I just realized Arlo and I have matching hair. Wow.

My date Arlo Guthrie and I are headed over to the Willow Manor Ball today where we will drink champagne, hobnob with folks famous and not so much, dead and alive, notorious and not. It is THE blog event, something I look forward to every year.

Now I know I look a little nervous in the picture, but the truth is we puffed from a funny cigarette just as we were departing the Occupy Wall Street scene in New York, and now trying to dance is somewhat of a challenge! I feel like giggling, but I'm thinking I need to pay attention to what I'm trying to do. Safety first!!

How the hell did I get into this dress which was once worn by Twiggy? It's the Ball. It is magic. See y'all on the flip side. Follow the link on the sidebar and join us, please? Bring a dream date - anyone you want, the rules of marital fidelity, not to mention life and death, do not apply. On other days we can live disciplined, orderly lives. But today? Gotta dance!

Howl

2011-10-11T13:46:00.008-04:00

Last night's crazy, ringed moon. Pretty star or planet on the left side of the pic, isn't it?

I was born at the dark moon which might be why I struggle so with the full moon. Should say, not EVERY full moon, though - more often than not - I flinch when I see the shiny disc in the sky. I can't help it, and btw I am not the only one who has ever felt this way. Think of the poor wolfman. The full moon brings a buzzy, shouting energy that I find overwhelming. I want to run and hide, but there's no hiding from Luna, c'mon.

Way back in the 90s, I drew down the moon one time in the middle of an epic witch camp, surrounded by a hundred campers and my fellow teachers. What I remember is an ethereal voice coming out of my own mouth, an eerie wailing sound (was that really me?) my head tilted back, my eyes wide open. I wailed/sang/called LOOOOOONAAAAAAHHHHHH! over and over again with the same passion that Marlon Brando exhibited in the famous scene from A Streetcar Named Desire.

Important disclaimer: I never made out with the moon, I promise. Eww.

At the time I had no idea that my relationship with the moon was so passionate. Again I must say I'm not the first, nor the last, to go a bit crazy under its influence. After the wailing I'm not sure what happened except the people in the circle around me began toning in a crazy spiral around and around. I remember how huge the moon seemed, I swear it filled at least half of the sky. It was trippy. At the end of the ritual apparently the moon let go of me, or I let go of the possession. When I looked down, two of my most revered fellow teachers were on the ground holding my feet as if they were afraid I might fly off into the night sky. I wonder what happened that night. I guess I'll never know.

Last night was one of Those Moons, big ole devil moon, as Tess of the blog Willow Manor would say. I tossed and turned all night, barely slept. Hence today I'm feeling kind of hungover (I wasn't drinking last night), and when I look in the mirror it's alarming to see how pale and scary I look. Surely werewolves feel like this the day after, hey?

Luckily I had a day off today. I don't have to focus, thank god. And now the moon has turned from full to a waning gibbous. What a relief! Hoping for a better sleep tonight. Wish me luck. Thanks. Shalom.

The 99%

2011-10-10T09:36:00.003-04:00

There was a piece on NPR this morning about Occupy Wall Street in Kansas City. Made me proud of my home town. And there's this opinion piece from the New York Times, well worth reading.

This is great. I wonder if Jon Stewart understands that he kicked this into motion when he held the Rally to Restore Sanity last year. The home-made signs, the gathering of all kinds of people with differing ideologies smells very much like that rally. I love it that there are a lot of different messages being presented and that this seems to be a real grassroots movement that is only partially organized by professional activists. I have a big problem with professional activists of all kinds due to the holier-than-thou mindset that seems to come with the territory. Why are they better than the rest of us? I've never understood that.

What I remember about the movements in the sixties is that the protests changed the way people saw the world. The social changes came into play somewhat after that. I am very excited! Regular folks are participating in our democracy. Oh yeah!!

No place like it.

2011-10-09T10:51:00.004-04:00

Autumnal rose with chateau windows in the background.

Literally for decades I've had a repeating dream about not being able to get home. I'm trying to catch a cab, find a bus stop, train station, Metro station, or my car. I am stranded and bereft.

Was. I haven't had that dream in awhile.

I do not own the chateau or my nest at the base of this grand old house on East Capitol Street, but this is my home, maybe the first home ever.

I certainly never felt at home in the house where I grew up, nope. I lived alone in a number of apartments during my 20s and 30s, but back then I was neo-bohemian to a fault, literally. I didn't cook, didn't care about comfortable upholstery or having a table at which to sit while eating dinner. So while I parked my stuff in these apartments, the spaces were never cozy, nor did they reflect anything much beyond my disinterest in nesting.

Later, I proceeded to co-habit with a string of other people, all of whom had definite opinions about what makes a house a home. For the duration of each of these situations, I took the path of least resistance which was to never even try making these spaces feel like my home. The result is that I lived in other people's homes.

When I moved into the chateau, I did a few things to make the space more comfortable. These days I love to cook and entertain, making some degree of domesticity a must. Also, as I get older, my appreciation and fondness for comfortable upholstery grows exponentially, a great motivation to at least try.

It was when I decided to move my practice into the chateau that I noticed how sparse it felt here. For my clients' benefit (or so I thought) I took time, spent money, fixed things up, attended to neglected spaces in the apartment, hung pictures, arranged. In other words, I decorated. The result is a COZY, inviting, calm and rather nice place, if I do say so myself. Clients say, "This is very you," "It feels so calm and inviting in here!" etc. I love it when they say that! One client asked if I'd had a feng shui consultant help arrange the space. Cool!

I did it for my clients, but I, too, am reaping the benefits of my efforts. For the first time ever I live in a space that's arranged just right for me. Not too big, not too small, too hot or too cool, too hard nor too soft. Within the domestic realm, I have achieved the Tao of Goldilocks.

Hence, the end of the nightmares. Or - at least that's today's theory. Happy Sunday to all. Hoping everyone I love is enjoying a peaceful day in a homey setting. Shalom.

Kippured

2011-10-08T08:44:00.006-04:00

Me: Good morning, your majesty. Whazzup?
God: Ha. I love it when you call me that!
Me: You are majestic, you know.
God: Yeah, that's what they say.
Me: You've got a busy day ahead, hey?
God: Yom Kippur - not actually my favorite day of the year.
Me: Why?
God: I love the singing, and the way y'all wear white. That's cool.
Me: But -- ?
God: But all the fussing about being forgiven? Sometimes even I don't understand what that's about. I guess it makes people feel better, but you know it isn't up to me personally - everyone can be forgiving of him or herself and others. It's hard but it can be done.
Me: Well, I can expl--
God (interrupting): And the people who never talk to me all year long, but today? Today they ALL want to talk to me, all at once. For heaven's sake. If I had a head, it would give me a headache.
Me:
God: Sorry, I interrupted you.
Me: Well ... I ... wanted to talk to you.
God: (laughing) You talk to me every day, go ahead.
Me: How are we, you and me? Are things good between us?
God: Why wouldn't they be?
Me: I'm supposed to ask before the Book of Life closes at sunset tonight. And I'm curious, this whole Let there be light thing from this year - did I do it?
God: Oh yeah. You're shining like a star, my dear. Well done.
Me: I've been wondering about facing the light like this ... doesn't that mean I will cast a very dark shadow? An unexamined shadow?
God: You generate light, just like everyone. This year you're remembering to embody the light rather than standing in someone else's light. Make sense?
Me: ... ummm ...
God: When you generate light, you shine from your back body as well as front body, creating only the palest shadow. It's a stage of life thing - you're just about three-score, yes?
Me: In a little over a year, yes.
God: Younger people must struggle, they have to build, expand, thrash around, cast shadows and explore those shadows. But later in life, the only thing you have to do is shine.
Me: OH, wow. What a revelation.
God:
Me: Wow.
God: Pick your jaw up off the ground, please. Can we wrap this up? I've got places to go and people see, sixty-four gates to pass through.
Me: Yes, of course, your majesty. THANK YOU, and I love you!
God: I love you, too. All of y'all. You're so adorable. Better get going. Shalom!
Me: Shalom! See you tomorrow... kiss kiss!

Squeaky

2011-10-07T07:44:00.006-04:00

What a week! The birth of baby Melina, the death of Steve Jobs (rest in peace, brother), the return of sunshine to Washington DC, as well as Occupy Wall Street reaching critical mass, all in ONE WEEK? Holy cow, no wonder I'm tired.

It's a good tired, though, a satsifying fatigue. Nothing is worse than exhaustion from boredom, hey? No chance of that this week, at least not for me.

I have a million thoughts spiraling through my mind and a million emotions spiraling through my heart, but not so much time to express them today. I could write at length about Steve Jobs, but others have done that very well. I could go on equally about how much this moment in time feels EXACTLY like the 60s and how damn lucky I am to have lived through two historical periods of social upheaval and change. I could wax rhapsodic about the parents of the baby who was born Tuesday, how incredible both of them are, how proud I am to be part of their extended family.

Indeed the High Holy Days this year have been epic, at least in my little corner of the world. Light poured in, to the city, into my heart and mind. I feel literally bright from all the light. Wow. Tonight after my long day of work I will settle into the energy of Kol Nidre, I will honor the ancestors and ask for their guidance and wisdom. Tomorrow is Yom Kippur, a day I ordinarily find unnerving. This year I'm ready for a big ole sit-down with God, I look forward to it. The light this week was cleansing. I feel squeaky clean, oh yeah.

What a week! Wow. Happy Friday to all. Shalom.

I did not take this pic. I saw it on Facebook and knew immediately I would post it here. It's an image that does my heart good. Spread it around!

Odd Duck

2011-10-05T10:43:00.003-04:00

Sometimes I seriously wonder if I'm from another planet. I am SO out of the mainstream. I know I'm not the only one, and I'm not disturbed about it at all. I yam who I yam, it's OK. The way I think and conduct my life is more or less harmless, at least I try my best. Also, and maybe this is equally significant: I am not interested in trying to convince anyone else that my way is the right way. God, no.

At times I've wondered how it was I moved so far off the societal path well marked and followed. All my sibs married well, have kids (well, most of them), and live within the consensual hallucination called ordinary reality. And then there's me. Hmm...

Only during the holiday season am I ever this focused on how different I am than Jane Q. Citizen. Today I'm thinking about it because I attended a birth yesterday, always an experience of awe, hard work, focus, and teamwork. I spent the day around people whose lives I can hardly imagine: the doctors, nurses, midwives and such. They're healers, as am I, but their points of view are vastly, hugely, monumentally different than my cosmology. They come at it very differently - very. Can't use the word VERY often enough here.

Every one of the professional healers I worked with yesterday was WONDERFUL, let me say - super heroes. No one was surly or impatient. There was professionalism, yes, but everyone was compassionate and competent. However it was very clear that if I had taken my rattle out of my purse and started dancing in shamanic alignment with the energy of labor and delivery, I would have been politely escorted from the room. Hey, I know better than to do that. But I thought about it, tried to imagine how my shamanic behavior would be received. It was clear that no matter how groovy labor and delivery have become in hospital settings, it's STILL a hospital. Such strange environments, hospitals.

OK, yeah. I'm a freak. My sister hates it when I use that word but it is not an insult, it's just how it is.

Walk your walk and talk your talk today, people. Let there be light! Shalom.

I like it!

2011-10-03T10:34:00.006-04:00

The spray paint over whatever graffiti was underneath has got to be as cool, or cooler, than the original art.

The astrologers said this period of time (since spring 2010, through 2017!) would feel like the 60s and it does! They were spot on. The Arab spring, sit-ins on Wall Street, riots in London, unjust wars, even the renewed interest in medical applications for hallucinogenics feels so familiar. Even the Tea Party, bless their hearts, getting out on the streets to demonstrate? They, too, feel the energies afoot and can not sit still. They must dance in shamanic alignment. The energy is strong.

It's very Age of Aquarius, the way so many of these movements don't have a clear agenda or a designated leader, or leadership that lasts very long. How these movements evolve is something I am curious to see. Most of us grew up with the idea that either we would be "the leader" or one of the faceless followers. We were encouraged to go one way or another, depending on the values of our parents and teachers, i.e. Be safe, be a follower, or Change the World!. We knew there was only room for one or two leaders, in class, the arts, and at work. It was very hierarchical. Similarly in our politics it was a situation of THIS or THAT. We were FOR or AGAINST. I think that paradigm is long past its expiration date.

Though it's harder for leaderless groups to find a focus, it is evolutionary behavior. It is the essence of the Age of Aquarius that each individual must find his or her way, do his or her part, contribute to the whole. It is no longer our duty to follow directions or to swallow anything hook, line and sinker or to be either FOR or AGAINST. We are at last seeking the third road. The world, and everything in it, is complicated. Yay!!

I'm seeing a lot of outrage on FB and elsewhere because network news is not covering the Wall Street sit-ins. But we all know about them, yes? Why do we care about the network news? We are so used to being outraged, it's hard to think straight sometimes. Network news is part of the old order, the establishment. Kill your TV! You don't need it anymore.

oops. Just lapsed into 60s jargon. Ha. I am VERY lucky, as one of the most Aquarian Aquarians you'll ever meet, to live through TWO historic periods of social upheaval and reinvention. That was then and this is now, but oh boy does it feel familiar.

Love, peace and rock 'n roll.

Enough already!

2011-10-02T09:25:00.008-04:00

"Let there be light" is the theme of my work for the High Holy Days this year. It is an interesting theme indeed. Light reveals what has been previously hidden from view which can be wonderful, illuminating, but also sometimes there are creepy little crawly things in the shadows that I didn't know were there. If there's light, things will be revealed. Hmmm.

In the past, discovering creepy crawly stuff was my cue to get to work, to heal or resolve the creeps and crawls no matter what, even at my own expense, even things that can't be resolved or healed. I was very determined.

It's interesting that I'm choosing, in a number of different situations, to turn away from the dark, instead face the light. The dark issues that are a part of life are fascinating, have always been compelling to me. Bearing down on age 59 as I am, it's dawning on me (perfect phrase) that I don't have to solve, unravel or fix everything lurking in the shadows. While I'm mucking around, life is going by. I need to choose carefully before plunging into the shadows to fix and repair. I do have a choice! What a revelation!

Let there be light all around me, to my left and right, before me and behind me, above me and below me. Let there be light as the days grow shorter. So may it be. Shalom.

The Tenth Month

2011-10-01T08:43:00.005-04:00

It's October and I am happy. Though once again gloomy in DC, it is a CHILLY gloom rather than a hot and humid gloom. At this time of year, I prefer chilly. It's supposed to be chilly. It might even be blustery out there; the wind is gusty. How exciting! Fall. Oh yeah.

October will be a busy month. I'm going to attend the birth of a baby - soon - next week sometime I think. Two of my oldest and most beloved friends are coming for a visit from San Francisco. Can't wait to see them! October 12 is the Willow Manor Ball, something I look forward to every year. See the sidebar for details. The Literary Feast is October 22nd, an excuse to cook, toast, and feast.

I will play a million games of scrabble with my sisters, brother and friends on the iphone. OK. Maybe only a thousand games. Along with the cool weather, I am again inspired to entertain here at the chateau; right now there are four or five cookbooks on my kitchen table, open to recipes for quiche, stews, and soups.

In October the leaves will begin to turn colors as best they can after a very dry summer followed by three steady weeks of rain, not the best of conditions for a colorful fall. Nevertheless, I will be out there walking around this month, taking dozens of pictures anytime Brother Sun is kind enough to grace us with his presence.

As always in October, I will hang out with the Dead. The veils are already very thin, have been for awhile, I should say, and the ghosts are already partying, such as they are able. They love a good long period of gloomy weather, who knows why? I've asked many times but they always pretend they didn't hear me. Actually there are living people, plenty of them, who LOVE gloomy weather. I don't get it, do you? One thing I'm guessing I will not do in October is understand that prediliction.

On Halloween I will again vamoose East Capitol Street to hide out on Tennessee Avenue, away from the uber-throngs of trick or treaters.

Oh yeah. October is my favorite month. I hope it stretches out and lasts a good long time. May it be so. Shalom!

She seems very determined.

Awesome

2011-09-30T07:58:00.004-04:00

In my own way, I am so Jewish. No I don't attend a temple (though I would go to Temple Micah except it's too far away, completely inaccessible for Capitol Hill residents without cars). I don't know Hebrew at all. Well, ok, maybe a little bit, just a letter or two. My cosmology includes many theories and interpretations that are decidedly NOT Jewish. Still, when the Days of Awe roll around, I always know it, even if I haven't checked a calendar, and I do take part, in my own way.

Yesterday was Rosh Hashana. I ate apple slices dipped in honey, baked a plum cake, listened to Charlie Parker (in lieu of a shofar) and thought about the past year. All day I prayed about what I'm supposed to get straight this year before Yom Kippur. Who have I hurt? What mistakes have I made? To whom do I owe an apology or two? Is there an experience I need to let go of? What can I learn?

Most years, the work of the High Holy Days has a theme. Some years I owe a lot of apologies! Oy vey. Sometimes it's more about letting go of grudges, aka forgiveness. Last year I had to stretch my heart, open up wider than I ever have (internally, I mean) in order to find a place of peace and connection with the divine that I had not previously experienced. It was rigorous and well worth the floppage that preceded the insight.

This year I'm still not clear what I'm supposed to accomplish, though I keep hearing the words "Let there be light!" in the back of my mind. This could be nothing more than a comment on the change in the weather - during September we only saw two or three sunny days. The rest of the month was humid, rainy, and gloomy with a pervasive overcast that finally broke up yesterday.

So, who knows? There are many days of prayer and discovery ahead before the somewhat excruciating rite of passage we call Yom Kippur. "Let there be light" is a rather lovely theme. What that means, if anything, is yet to be revealed.

Have a wonderful Friday. Shabbat Shalom and L'Shana Tovah. Onwards and upwards, oh yeah.

Thanks, Carol. Perfectly said!

2011-09-29T08:09:00.003-04:00

OF AN AGE

Less sleep but fewer tears
Prayers pared down to tweets.
Desire scrubbed of sullenness.
A propensity for sweets--

but not truffles, truffles
I find too dense; chocolate-glazed
bacon, the idea of it, too strange.
Fads tempt less. A glass raised

in sentiment, more.
The fleet beauty of words
no longer cased unsaid.
The glass in shards.

--Carol Moldaw

We find each other

2011-09-27T14:25:00.012-04:00

The sky is in a piss poor mood. Still.

Remember when everyone was all crazy about how the internet was going to cause people to become isolated, stripped of the ability to interact with others? I remember - it was a big thing for awhile. Tongues and fingers were wagging everywhere about what disasters would arise if we continued to develop cyberspace. (Does anyone still call it that?) I guess that's when people were mostly conversing one-on-one through email, and only going on the internet to watch porn.

I read recently that social networking and video streaming are now the top two ways people use the internet. Porn has been kicked down to third place or maybe even fourth - a lot of folks shop on the internet. Yeah!! As one of the most Aquarian of Aquarians you'll ever meet, I am happy. The internet as a place to meet and greet, stay updated on one another's goings on, create friendships, share news both good and bad, makes perfect sense. We are pack animals, I tell you. We always find a way to connect. When in doubt, we cluster. We always have.

No I am not nostalgic for the "good old days," whatever that means. I am not a romantic in that sense at all. Life is the same as it ever was, overfull of experiences that are stressful (like being chased by predators, or wondering if the clan down the path is going to attack, or worrying about a business meeting with the boss). Life is also replete with experiences that are blissful always in any century or era (like the arrival of a baby into a happy family, a clear sunny day, the plush feeling of resiliency that comes after a very good night's sleep, feasting and toasting with near and dear ones).

I think we humans worry way too much sometimes, yes? I say yes.

All the years I lived on Tennessee Avenue I never paid much attention to the Mary McLeod Bethune statue. The sculptural style repels me, for one thing. But it's kind of growing on me, apparently, since I've featured pics of it almost every day lately.

Words

2011-09-26T12:38:00.017-04:00

I'm a writer.

What does that mean? For some it might be about recognition; a published writer, in other words. Or for some it's about how much focus, time and attention is put into writing. To be a writer one must be serious about it, struggle with the art, stay up all night suffering from writer's block, or be paid for our efforts? Writers have bad hair, smoke cigarettes, drink too much. At least they do in the movies.

I know there are plenty of people who don't read or write. We were, for most of our history, a species of oral traditions that included dance, song, storytelling and sacred drama. Reading and writing is a recent accomplishment. I believe we're the only species that reads and writes. Is that correct?

Near the end of the twentieth century, I feared reading and writing were dying out. But then the internet came into its prime. Suddenly people were reading and writing again, with a passion!

The evolution of texting is similar in certain ways to the development of writing. Remember BFF and LOL and C U L8R. Of course abbreviations are still part of texting, but not nearly as much as at the beginning. Texts are quite sophisticated these days. People blog, or leave long comments on other blogs. They post notes on Facebook, also very clever status updates. The art of status updates on Facebook and Twitter is the way we write haiku in the 21st century. It's interesting to think about.

I have always been a writer of sorts. You should see the stack of personal journals I have, dating back to the 1970s. Holy cow I should get rid of those things! I used to write letters regularly, got in trouble many a time in high school for passing notes with friends. For awhile I was Queen of Postcards. Email? I loved it immediately, of course. No I haven't written a book, and have had only a tiny handful of things officially published, but I am a writer. Yeah.

Lately I am even moreso a writer than I once was. I'm posting consistently on two blogs, keeping up with my personal journal and I'm also writing on Evernote, a very cool app I use on the macbook as well as the iphone. I'm writing about my failed marriage, a really interesting experience. Bloody hell.

I'm glad reading and writing did not go the way of the dodo. At least not yet. If we didn't read or write, what the hell would I do with All The Words inside my head? I'm afraid the words might reach a critical mass after which I might spontaneously combust. I'm not really afraid of that happening, should say - but I do enjoy writing, I do.

Have a happy Monday. Shalom.