Ghost Girl

my crisp heart

is dry

and happy

but sometimes from nowhere I can see

an ache flows

salt and water phantom

not a memory:

those I choose.

Little Fish

223 

There's something like a family of those who know water. They make eye contact and nod upward. Hey. Hey. Surfers, divers, sailors, lifeguards, paddlers, snorkelers, fishers, crabbers. For life or for fun. Hey. 

This water isn't fresh: it's salt. It's waves, it's breakers. It's a thing that's your lover and your buddy and your nemesis and sometimes your mother. It's a thing that rocks you to sleep, the thing that tastes like your tears. And while it is all these things, it teems with billions of other lives than your human ones: lives minuscule to gargantuan.

My first recollection of the ocean is my Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom was handsome, he was my aunt's first love, her only love. He was kind, steady, an athlete, predictable and handsome. She hooked him, she recognized early she had to do it. I think she was 14 or 15, and she asked him to the dance the first chance she got. That was Uncle Tom. Very different from my family, not though not altogether incompatible. We had nice shared family times on holidays. And some times at the beach. I believe they used to rent a house at Newport Beach one week out of the summer. We would go there and visit them during the day.

Later in my life I would live in the water, because the land was 120°. The Mediterranean, at 85°, was cool and sea life better than any TV show.  Before all that, though, in California, this was my first water time. I was so little that the smallest wave broke over my head, standing on the edge. I was scared and crying, alone, for some reason. I remember walking back to the towels, still crying. 

I think my Nana dried me off, then Uncle Tom started to talk to me. He held my hand and walked me back to the ocean. We stood a little ways back from the break, he showed me the rhythm, if memory serves correct (which it may not.) Anyway, in my mind he showed me the rhythm, and he picked me up in his strong Pony League (Dodgers) baseball arms and held me, so my head was even with his own. We watched the wave coming toward us, he told me to take a breath…hold it... Splash !  Wasn't that fun?

My hair was wet, "Now taste the salt. Feel the cold on your skin. Here comes another one, see how it starts is just a small bump then grows? … hold your breath again…" sploosh! That one was a really big. I watched and counted, learned to observe. A few more waves and I'm laughing! Which made Uncle Tom laugh, too.

Soon I didn't ever want to leave. That night I felt the waves In my bed for the first time of many: salt water rocking is like that.

 A few years later, Uncle Tom had a son, Tim. Tim is a surfer. He's more than a surfer, he's an international surfer, and a photographer of surf. He's a graphic arts manager for a surf company: one of those lucky people (Tim would use the word blessed ) who found a way to make his passion his livelihood. Tim waited and married a beautiful woman, and together they made a strong, loving family. 

Our cousin Susan is four years older. She has two girls, Tom's first grand babies. Her husband works in the water cleaning yachts, under and above the surface. Tom was so proud. He grew up as an only child, loving kids, apparently, with two kids and five grand kids, two nieces and a nephew. (My brother and his boys surfed, he does underwater photography, my sister was a jr. lifeguard for a season.) I never saw him with them, but the pictures are rich. He lived a full life.

That Day at the beach was my only memory of doing anything one-on-one with Uncle Tom, we were not close. He wasn't unfriendly, just in the corner. All I knew of Uncle Tom was his pigeons, he had been a paper salesman, other than that he was pretty quiet at our family functions. He sat in the corner of the couch with a smile on his face, legs crossed, arm across the back. Sometimes telling my aunt to not have that glass of wine. Sometimes making a funny comment about the kids, but usually quiet.

Uncle Tom died last year. He had two services, the first one was the regular funeral, large, with lots of his pigeon people and family friends. Afterwards I remembered that ocean experience with him. After he died, during a conversation with my aunt. I recalled that story to her. Only then she told me about their plans for his ashes later in the year and it made perfect sense. 

The second service was on the water: Tim and his surf brothers paddled out with Uncle Tom's ashes to escort him home. That's the way he wanted. My single experience with Uncle Tom turned out to signify his life. I am grateful.

Salt mixed up in water. There's a reason fish represent: in dreams, in religions, all over the world, for millennia. I don't know exactly what it is, but I know it's real. 
Hey.

"They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters;

These see the works of the Lord, and his wonders in the deep.

For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof.
They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths: their soul is melted because of trouble."

They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit's end.

Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses.

He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still.

Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired haven.

Oh that men would praise the Lord for his goodness, and for his wonderful works to the children of men!

Psalm 107:23-31 

The Funniest Thing I've Ever Seen...

 

was the Crazy Clown Car episode of Reno 911.

In real life the funniest thing I ever saw was this:

Hanging out with the then BF up on the roof-deck, He was sitting in a director's chair. We had imbibed and were a little loopy. I walked over to the other side of the deck, turned around and lifted up the big patio umbrella so I could see him, just a weird type thing I wanted to do, thinking it would be funny or something. I had to bend down to pick it up, so the view was upside down. So I lift it up, head down and see him in the chair, his head barely reaching the top of the back.

In that short time it took me to walk across the deck he shrunk- from 5'8" to 3'4", apparently. Whaaaah?!

So I walk over and realize he's wedged in the chair; the fabric ripped and his bottom went through the bottom. I tell him (like a brilliant idea) to get up. he couldn't. So I tell him to roll forward, stand up with his feet on the floor and his rear/chair sticking out, like a waddle, then I could pull it off. well, you get the picture. He couldn't do that either. Obviously. I was literally rolling on the ground laughing. 

Then came up with a few equally preposterous ideas, some involving tipping him over onto his side. Eventually I put my foot on the chair for leverage and pulled him out. Pop.

What is it for you? The Funniest Thing?

Jesus

Originally posted June 29, 2008

so i'm sitting at the coffee place doing internet stuff, well, rather, not doing the ebay stuff i'm supposed to be at.

There's a young woman sitting four feet away from me, through the window, she's facing the street. I'm behind and to the left of her. I catch her profile, back and shoulder. Thin and pale, mousy hair, little moles sprinkled on her arm, with a cotton dress and a sunglasses a little dated. Lips colored just a shade too bright for the occasion. There's a guy with her, I see the back of his head, red skin, short buzzy hair kind of. Talking about his trip. And more about his trip, all these places: Slavic, Spanish, Arabic. He gets tired of all of them. She says,"Yeah." So many times i lose count and get irritated. nodding her little cracked smile.

This other guy comes and asks if he can sit down. I want to say, "He looks like Jesus." or maybe, "hey, there's Jesus." Stellar blue eyes (this is the eurocentric savior picture type) contrasting a pure white long sleeved t. shoulder length gold curls, short blond/red beard. khaki bag. he sits down.

Trip guy asks one question about what she's been doing. Studying and working. Then he says he's going into the store next door for a bit but will be back.

About 30 mins later he comes back. I'm surprised by him. and to realize she's been waiting for him. this whole time. Tells her it's been great seeing her again. She nods and smiles. Then he's gone again. She moves to maybe close her books and head off, a little uncertain.

Then Jesus starts to talk to her, he crosses his leg toward her and looks into her eyes. He asks her what she's studying, what level, what she thinks of it, what she really thinks of it. She talks and he listens. Plato. What it's like to study philosophy. they kvetch about the cost of college,talk about books. She says "yeah" only once. They exchange names. He shakes her hand.

She reads more, then asks him if he's heard of this woman she's reading about. They talk about feminism, writers, history.

The music changes, Dolly Parton's guitar brilliant and painful, Jolene, i'm somewhere else now...

they talk more. She stands to leave. She is stunning. Curves and contrast. I see her eyes for the first time. Like ebony pools, she holds them to his bright blues. and offers her hand and promises to call.

Things I Love

Dinah Washington's little pauses

Piano percussion

Bass, totally addicted like

Chanel no 19, old formula

Madeleine Vionnet

Moonlight on water

A responsive piano

Bach Cello Suites

Old leaded glass panes

Warm wood

Cool stone

Really old and really new buildings

Buildings that bring the outside in 

Four year olds

Eight year olds

70 year olds

Cab Calloway

Guacamole

Rhythms that start as one thing and morph into something else

Ofrah Haza

Fertile women, not necessarily in the baby sense

Perfect audio
The Tiki Room

Transparency

Women

Men

Children

Elegant machines

Live music in that moment where the room stops

Walking outside with my children and having three way conversations

Growing

Lying in the dark, listening to a train whistle

Gardens that look wild

Jane Austen

Aldous Huxley

Annie Dillard

The King and I

Flogging Molly

Ella
Thelonious

Clara Bow

Wooden boats
Deep water

Tentative kisses

Hidden places

Eyes

Warm, windy nights

Banter, fluff, back and forth and all that

Getting beyond all that

Brave people with radical ideas who tell them in gentle ways

Kindness and creativity in the same person

The sound of crickets at night

Blue, the color and the movie
The Word

Not Really

Blah blah blah Me me me blah Me Me!  blah blah blah blah me.blahgger

Is Me Me a meme?

Wow, I am amazing. Look at the beautiful poem I just wrote about blogging.

Dedicated to the proposition...

 Remembering my great great grandfather, Corporal John Marion Woodyard, Company H, 12th West Virginia Volunteer Infantry. His brother, Jerome, died of typhoid fever near Harper's Ferry. John named his son Arthur Jerome, that son was my mother's grandfather. This book is a great read, btw. Part of it is written by a woman, about her journey to bury her husband. On the way back she was captured and held as a POW for a time. Her writing is charming, frank, fun. 

Extraordinary deeds, ordinary people called by their conscience, none famous, few recognized. So grateful for this heritage. They took their cause personally and from what Hewitt says, most believed that they were shooting the shackles off of four million human beings. 

He was disgusted after the war with attempts to memorialize Confederate soldiers, and talks about that in the conclusion:

" However, regarding the war from a moral and political standpoint, it sometimes seems as if the war did not last long enough. It took years of the terrible scourge of war, it would appear, to convince the people of the seceded states, and to wring from them the acknowledgement that they were better off without slavery than with it. And perhaps if the war had lasted a little longer, and the Rebels had felt still further the scourge of war, those who now have so much respectful regard for the flag of treason, and the Lost Cause and their defenders, might have finally become convinced that one flag and one cause and its defenders are enough to honor; and that there should be no place in the patriotic regard and affection of the people in this free land of ours for the Rebel flag, the Lost Cause or their defenders. Big as this country is it ought to be too little to give room for any display of honor to the Rebel flag, the Lost Cause, or their champions, dead or alive. Therefore, no soldier who would be faithful to his country and the cause for which he fought should join in any ceremony of decorating Rebel graves, of holding reunions with Rebels, or of putting up monuments to them."

So much for the "States Rights'" theory.  Living here in WV we still see the Confederate flag on a daily basis- on tshirts, bumper stickers, in yards and windows. I believe this environment may have been what drove our grgrandfather out, to Iowa.

The picture/ link at the left goes to the West Virginia book company, a local small business focusing on literature relevant to the state. The link below is one of Project Gutenberg, and a free book available in several formats.

 History of the 12th West Virginia Volunteer Infantry

This kills

This kills people. Too many. There is no excuse for the rate of suicide we have in this country. Why do we act like suicide is a part of life? It is not a part of life: depression is an illness in the brain. Do we say that about diabetes or appendicitis? Just watch people die from those things and shake our heads? As a society we bear a collective guilt for failing to inform ourselves, for looking the other way. It's way past time to do something about it. We can't wait for Dr. Drew anymore. My wish is that every single person on Facebook know how to prevent suicide. How many lives could we save collectively? Let's stop the stigma. This Is a Tedtalks video about helping: "How to Save a Life." Please watch and share. You really may save someone's life sometime. The main tool to prevent suicide is human connection: listening and being willing to take action. We are all capable of that. Suicide destroys-the dead and the left grieving and wondering. It's deeply hurt someone I love dearly and his family: children, parents, spouse. Please help me tell him something good is happening here- watch and share, easy. He is young. He needs hope. also posted a list of warning signs above . . Feel free to clip and paste. Thanks for your time. http://lm.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2FWRmRSiJRGEw&h=iAQFf0cwB&s=1

Face

Sometimes the bad outweighs the good. It's tiring, and it seems those times get more frequent the older I get. Too many ex-clients with tragic stories in the news. Too much debt. Palestinians continue to get pummeled. People are not really there for each other. FB is pseudo. And it's all nice. And I'm crying in the store again. I don't have real friends here, lots of nice acquaintances, but I am alone. I put on a face. It's FaceBook. I miss my daughter so much.

The High Price of Safety

Another time where in the course of my work I encounter a human who has been horribly used, watch that their pain become dependence on chemicals, and morph into hurting others like they were hurt, and end up on the morning news.

Six times in the past 15 years I've watched my clients' stories play on tv at home.  Not figuratively: these are my actual clients. Violent rape, sex abuse of children, addiction, ADHD child runs into traffic & killed, 13 yo murdered by a john, 17 year old shot and killed by a 13 year old in "gang" violence.  I see a picture or the announcer says a name and think "I know that person, that place, wait, what?" There's no training for this experience in  graduate school.

One died on the street I lived on at the time. I began working with her when I was pregnant with Claire. When I came back from maternity leave I gave her a tiny baby picture of Claire so she could see her- she had addicts in her life who came and went. Her grandparents worked with me to give her predictability and security. When I went on maternity leave we put it on her calendar, when I came back I wanted her to see what I had been doing. She slept with that little picture under her pillow. She was a success story and graduated from therapy. She found her place at home in a loving environment and at a school with the right people. She was thriving. Her little body in that casket was the first I'd ever seen. Her name was the same as my sister's.
That name on the news that morning.

Every one who works with addicts, criminals, or victims lives these stories. Law enforcers, probation officers, counselors, social workers, children's case managers, child protective service workers, teachers, doctors, foster parents. Every one does their work like this. Accepting frailty, opening their self to the possibility of betrayal. Working to make a difference in the face of despair. Sometimes their own. Sometimes that of the agency they represent, or taxpayers, or judges, or ...

Mine can become overwhelming at times, especially when combined with, say, the situation the Middle East. Mine is also linked to the pain, violence, and love in my family of origin. Sometimes it ends up looking like depression and I'm in bed 20 hours again.

I haven't  personally known therapists with so many clients that show up on the news. That part is something weird. It makes it graphic, sensational. Extreme, "newsworthy" without any of the human in there. The shock. It feels so urgent, like I'm supposed to DO something. Maybe that's why I'm writing this now.

Also therapy is a confidential relationship. Now watching those things we are bound to keep private, in part or whole being broadcast on the news. It's unnerving. And there are always parts left out. Because real complex people and stories don't make the news.

But everyone who works with damaged people in damaged systems has heard, seen, felt tragedy. Whether it's their client or someone else's on the news they know the drill.

Prosecuting attorneys, therapists who work with little children at the sexual assault centers, ministers who try to minister to the victims AND perpetrators in those situations, teachers who suspect, but don't know for sure. Try to help and support, wondering if they're sending that child home to hell every night, but don't have anything really reportable. The police officers who know their uniform is scary who try to connect anyway, get down on the child's level, use language of respect. The rookie cop taking a report in the 11-year-old's bedroom, searching for words to convey something like safety or hope. The addiction counselor who makes $11.32 an hour, and welcomes, smiling,  the same addict for the third time this year. The partners who buy a car wash to give the convicts on their beat a place to work and break the cycle: not a terribly profitable business model.

Then there are the soldiers. Patriots with guilt the size of Texas. Guilt. For the wounds they didn't get but watched. The wounds of morality, their missions? Who did they really serve? Grief on grief, with a topping of futility. And those who command them, and those who listen to their stories and try to help. ? Some in the VA system, enough said.  So many in so many ways. 

It takes a toll.

I personally know every one of these people, and more. They often carry some sadness, or suspicion, along with a fire in the belly, a fight, tenacity, with a little black humor for good measure. Sometimes they age sooner than they should, they don't sleep or eat or play when they should. They carry stories and feelings too terrible to unload. Because it's the right thing to do.

If you know someone who works with damaged souls (criminals, veterans, addicts, mentally ill, victims)  and tries to keep hope alive, consider what they give. Most of them do it at personal expense: financial, relationship, health, lifespan. Most will never talk about it. I'm a little narcissistic with low filters, that's why I do sometimes. But even here I feel a need to point to them instead. The work and daily recovery of energy can be all consuming. They fail, maybe as often as they succeed. They fight against statistics and they fight against doubts, willing something better into existence. One story at a time.

They do it for us because that's what it takes to keep most of us safe most of the time. It's deeply personal, existential warfare, and it often seems pointless. We all count on things being mostly fair, mostly nice. These people pay for that. Take a minute to think and thank them.

Easter Moons

People who know me well know that Easter is my favorite holiday. Not because it's about the spring, but the winter turning into spring. 
For Episcopalians Easter is a process, the whole cycle of life over some days. We begin tonight with a foot washing service, it may sound weird but it's really beautiful. Jesus served: we serve. That's what he was doing the next day on the cross. Then we grieve and think about being human: dark, flawed, mortal. Forsaken sometimes. Next we watch while the dark turns into dawn, coming with perfect joy that's born out of love that keeps promises.

Last year at this time I read about the Kansas City shooting, that horrible Heil Hitler event. In an article about two of the victims, a grandfather and teen, their minister was quoted, talking about their family left behind: “They said we have the utter confidence that our son and dad are together with God now; that brings them comfort...This evil thing this person has done will not have the final word here."

It was an Easter message on Good Friday.

Maybe you find this kind of faith ridiculous. Really, most days I do, too. Do people really fly off with a band of angels when they die if they  believe in a Jesus fairy tale? The best I can do for faith is halfway, on the best days.

Still, like Steven Colbert says, "there are much worse things to believe in." Those two men and their faithful family seemed to be unusually happy. They lived exemplary lives, they pursued excellence. Watch a video of the boy, Reat Underwood, singing. That's why he was at the center that day, to audition as a vocalist. Those two cared about people. They spread happiness. Happiness. Made people feel loved. They seemed to feel loved, themselves, they really believed they were loved by something bigger than the universe. What's that about if it's not real? 

A hope that love is more real than hate, even when resentment is the best I can offer, that's what Easter is about for me. Easter symbols are about life, one that transcends death. The full circle. Reat's mother said "we were having life and we will have more." 







So I'll celebrate my faith (Lord, help my unbelief) and wish you the best on this spring day. Regardless of your beliefs, I want to wish you this kind of holiday: whatever hope means to you, I hope your day is filled with it. Happy Easter. Woot woot!

Religion has this essential thing in it that is about hope. Whether a physical resurrection or a symbolic one, Christian Easter says there's light in darkness, and the darkness can not overcome it. Hope. 

Small Town Money

Originally Published October, 2011

I found this and thought you might appreciate it. It was a heartening little story, just one, representing a small town in rural America, one obviously committed to their kids, education and rodeo. Personally I've known nothing about rodeo, but my daughter is a new member on her school's barrel racing team, so I'm trying to learn fast. This little clip brought to mind a couple of other similar small town stories from my state, both places that used creativity and community to revitalize their economies.

One, Toppenish, did it through art. Their motto: "Where the West STill LIves in the City of Murals and Museums." They hired local artists to paint murals on the sides of the buildings in town. These murals feature stories from the history of the area, and are painted in a 24-48 hour period, I believe. They set up bleachers for for visitors to watch the mural unfold. The rest of the year they have horse drawn cart tours of the murals. It was named a "Must-See Old West Destination by True West Magazine in 2010." Pretty cool for a formerly disenfranchised bunch of 9,000, mostly Native Americans.

Another small town, located in the mountains, created an economic upturn for themselves by adopting a cultural heritage as their own. They took a vote and agreed to turn themselves into a little Bavaria. All the architecture has Bavarian details, there are German restaurants, gift stores, music at the pavilion in summer evenings. The best is winter, of course, where they display all kinds of German Christmas decorations and tree ornaments, and have a great lighting ceremony. This brings in tourists also taking in local x country ski trails.

I'm always tickled when I see art and ingenuity making money. Ever notice how in any given city whenever the artists stake out an area, within 5-10 years that area becomes the hot new place to be? Then the property values rise, restaurants cook, stores sell, services serve... So many times these kind of decisions are based on human factors. How a place feels, the "vibe." In the rodeo story it's about how the community feels, the warmth, the hope, the support they see for kids and family life. Economic drivers.

what's your experience? Ever see an economy transformed by ideas?