The Lone Surfer

I feel like an old, haggard surfer,
 bent over my board,
 legs in the water,
hoping for the wave I fear I have
missed.
The larger waves march across the ocean floor
racing underneath me and
I rise with their chi running to the shore,
hopeful
there will be one more for me to
edge up onto the lip,
step back onto this board,
my magic carpet for a life time,
find my balance,
push up onto the curl and
find that place
 where the energy of life
arrives at my feet,
climbs up my legs and
into my body as
I find the teetering force-
the will carry me aloft towards the shore,
ebullient,
empowered and
content to be
the lone surfer patient enough to
wait for the moment when
fear becomes hope
one more time.

My sister's doorstep

Can I turn my back on
the darkness that has come to
rest in
 the circle of my arms and
cast it wide,
stride away and into
 the rest of my life,
quieting Sydney's relentless complaints and fears
and wake up in
another town,
at my sister's doorstep and offer her a cup of
morning coffee,
my headlamp tucked into the pocket of
my bathrobe,
excited,
afraid,
curious and hungry for more before
we both exit?

The Cartier Tiara

All of that
sky
awaits me,
patient and eternal,
infinite,
hope,
beauty and
silence
as
keenly sculpted as any
Cartier tiara.

Poolside

Poolside somewhere at
sunset,
some oddity of a life may have been
mine
for the living
with merriment and joy
just out of
reach,
my choices got me to here
 though I had no other
insights.
Pulled from the wreckage of
a life not lived
well,
I chose the circus and not the seat
in the audience
as the lights and the magic
did blind my path.

Diamonds In The Rough

If I had know then
 that the handbook of life had
 been lost to the fire before I was
born,
 torn asunder
by the parents who
 could not love
 one another without
 drawing knives,
I may have just turned
 around and
 headed back,
 saving myself an entire life to here,
 digging holes trying to find
the instructions for
 living and
paying special attention to the
words of others who have
 walked across the Mohave without
water,
 lived on nuts and berries in
the Sierras,
 fashioned shoes out of tires
shredded by 18 wheelers climbing
The Grapevine.
Growing old on earth
 vanquished that child in me to
the shadows for survival
 with all of her dreams glistening
 and bejeweled like
diamonds in the rough.

The Ashes Of Evening

We were able to attempt to entertain Jade yesterday at a PetExpo by putting him in front of other dog butts and finding new ways to keep him interested in life, change and well, dog butts.  I was pretty excited having a chance to see other dogs and continue to put salve on that place in my heart freshly wounded by Omi's death. 

We move forward, one step and then stall, then take more steps and then pause to remember all she was and how quickly her exit left us feeling lost.

There were hawkers of dog paraphernalia and more than a few rescue groups giving out stale dog bones that Jade refused to eat.  We met up with our Greyhound rescue group and met Rogue, Felicia, CiCi and Georgio.  Butt sniffing was shared and we felt we had reached our maximum threshold of fun and toddled home.

As evening began to show her reach, we took Omi's ashes and twelve red roses down to the creek walk to scatter what was once a red tornado amongst the leaves and the end of a warm October day. Something about it felt right and something about it felt all wrong as I come to terms with these weeks of my plans for a few more years with both Greyhounds as I patch myself together after a long dry spell.

Rituals are important to me and especially in marking the death of one so close.  Omi loved the creek walk we do every morning and I thought of her bouncy walk, kind of built like Wendy the Whippet  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FEOoCiq16g There has not been a day that I haven't looked outside on the patio dog beds for Omi, our polar girl who loved to sleep outside in the cold.  There will be more of those days to come as we come to terms with the ashes of this evening.

The Last Dog Standing

As we three get ready for the Greyhound reunion, I find that place in me that mourns the death of Omi who came with us last year, to stand with other ex-racer Greyhound families still devoted to these stoic, graceful, injured, funny and beautiful dogs used as gambling machines for ignorant humans. We all come together to experience "diving for hot dogs," the "50 yard dash," and "the longest tail" contest in order to bring some humor to the commitment we have to these exploited dogs.

Some of us are just plain folks and some of us are a bit fanatical yet all of us share the love we have for these amazing sight hounds.  For us, maybe today will bring some salve to our broken hearts just to see dozens of Greyhounds, reminding us of what Omi, Ginger, Rosie and Major were to us and that there are many still that need homes.  The "race industry" is diminished yet Greyhounds are still dispatched in cruel ways after their race careers come to an end.  We will be there to catch them and love them big.

For Jade, being the last dog standing in our home has its benefits, like sleeping in with "flea" on a cold morning in October before it is time to pile in the car for our next adventure.

Remembering Omi's Exit

We have done several things here at home, to mark the place where our little red tornado held us aloft and made us better humans.  At least, I hope to be.  Roses on her bed outside and her collar and leash on her bed next to Jade.  There is a great emptiness and that will last for a long time.  She exited a week ago and yet, I lose track of time and feel myself hugging my heart to stop the pain.  It continues.

A book I picked up again is a remarkable story about an amazing author and her journey though darkness.  I have picked it up through my parent's deaths, a divorce and too many dog friends.  I find it in my hands again, as I walk through these days leading into Fall, knowing that I may never understand what has happened to my life until something changes radically.  Omi's death has set me on my haunches wondering where that blow originated and how her dogness softened the edges.

"We cannot walk out of the darkness unless we are first willing to immerse ourselves fully in it. It demands a leap of faith, for there are no signposts along the way that will guarantee our safe return. There is only a dark tunnel, leading to who-knows-where...We know, intuitively, that we may never come out of the blackness.  But there is no choice, for to be fully alive, we must die with our losses. This is the moment in time when we succumb to death, so that we may live."
-Companion Through the Darkness, Inner Dialogues on Grief by Stephanie Ericsson

The Other Side Of Night

The silence surrounds Jade and I, as I sit on the couch, early AM before dawn, reading, searching the “spiritual” books for an answer after a night of restlessness and bad dreams. Omi is gone and with her, the light and the energy of her complaining and her joy.  Jade watches me with his black eyes in that white, Greyhound face, to see how I am, and I watch him, watch me and wonder, how long do we have together?

 

The silence enters uninvited as we reach Monday, all over this world, the working stiffs of our neighborhood, so full of SUVs and trucks and people plunging off to their important work lives while we sit here, at the corner, mourning Omi, sharp and true and painful , getting ready for our solo walk down to the creek.

 

My Omi 6/3/04-9/10/13

My dog,
 my self.
I greet your death with shock and remorse
 for all that I shall not live without you,
My wild, untamed Greyhound,
 quirky, joyful, disobedient, fierce, loving and
 sorrowful.
May we find a way to move forward and embrace
 our sorrow in this gap
where once you made us whole.
You were the light that shined here through the dark
 days of this interminable year,
your affinity for any kind of chip,
dog cookies,
"the snake",
frantic end over ends in the living room,
helicopter tail wagging,
dark, Cleopatra eyes,
sleeping,
upsidedownandbackwards Omifying,
in and out of the dog door revelry,
sleeping outside on your Limburger cheese bed,
sleeping outside in the dirt,
talking and complaining in your misunderstood language,
scratching and
sultry eye melting when we massaged you.
My dog,
 my self-
how shall I find peace without you?

What If God Had a Meetup Group?

In our northern California town, there isn't much happening and so often, it feels that all one can do is get outdoors and occasionally, find a good movie.  There is not much for me here that I want to keep and that is what so many people feel about the town they grew up in.  This isn't Ohio, but it might as well be just that.  It was time to move on three years ago and life kept getting in the way and then it all came down like a flimsy house of cards. 

However, I am of the mind to not give up on life.  We have tried a Sierra club group in Marin and felt very underappreciated, though they appeared to want new members.  We tried three different events that took about an hour and a half to get to and though we saw some great views, the company was pretentious and chilly.  Hmmm, not our people we guessed.

We have tried other contrived social events here in our own county and those felt very flat as well, disjointed, no connection with our peeps.  You have this little glimmer of hope and then you realize, it is just another party that is a flop.  It is where we are and it could easily be somewhere in the Mohave or Ventura or Riverside or Modoc county with worse weather. 

I tried yet another attempt, on my own, at a local Meetup group-the new trend for people forced together by a common interest or desire at a specific place and time. When I showed up for the movie and ready to meet "my people," I could not figure out who they were since they didn't have a little cardboard sign like at the airport! The film was some kind of art piece that was troubling and compelling but not exactly a social lubricant. I left after the film with some other strangers, who were not apparently my Meetup group, and we chatted about our take on the hideous film. Nice people.

The following day, I received email remarks spun off by the Meetup website that said, in bold letters-GREAT TO SEE YOU!  I thought to myself, huh?, did I see you? Ah, a slight of hand or rather, a computerized message generated by a website that recognizes that you registered for an event and gosh darn it, they want to thank you for showing up.  Huh, did they show up and I just missed them?  Weird.

I began to think about the ramifications of all of this, in regards to our disassociation from one another and Meetup groups and fake "GREAT TO SEE YOUs" and the universe.  The mystery, the universe, the space in between, existential thoughts on connection and loneliness. We are so "device" oriented and so separate that we need to create events to pretend that we are connected.

 I wondered if God had a Meetup group, would God announce "god's self" with a small cardboard sign and would God generate a big "thank you" even though God stayed home to wash God's hair and never showed up at the event?  I wondered.  I wondered some more.

The Life You Save May Be Your Own-8/2/2013

My fork in the road has come. A country, gravel road off of the main highway that was not marked nor even slightly worn as things began to push me towards the turn that I made a month ago.  I suppose, if I had been more inside my body and relaxed, the choice would have been obvious and natural, maybe almost an afterthought. Running out of gas was not something I planned on that day.

Yet like so many things that I have attempted in the last almost three years, the next turn appeared like a diamond in the rough. Funny thing though, the polish on that stone was a simple patina from China or Vietnam, somewhere they exploit poor people for sure.  The coating cracked easily under pressure and the color was off, way off actually.  I could see the fake underneath the edge as I stepped forward into yet another job in another town. 

Everyone has a story and so do I.  Six jobs in three years took me to the brink of despair and I had no more answers or faith or will to go on. I wanted to be gone.  I could no longer blame bad job choices or just the disappointments inherent in seeking a way to earn a living on those employers. I have been a part of those choices and yet, I could not have done anything much different.  When I veered off of the main highway, I thought I might not live through this.  I still wonder.

I sought help and some came through though qualified.  So much energy is lost to the ground and I am a mess most days.  Somewhere in there, a small, somewhat still voice mentioned that I could focus on what works and move slowly and try to find out where my light was snuffed out and relight the torch.  This is just an idea and I shall finish it and learn some things along the way.  This will be a journey and I am my only company.  I am going to find the main highway but I am in no rush to do so.  Maybe just maybe. As Dan Pallotta tried to tell us, "Your moment will come."

For now, I am training to run the Iron Girl 1/2 Marathon in November and the Austin 1/2 in February of 2014.  I find myself and my breath and my effort way out there as I run my way to health and hopefully back to sanity after coming close, so very close to calling it quits. The life I save may be my own and that makes it worth the effort of a lifetime.

Little Old Laundry Man

If a writer's soul is her writing itself, mine surely has been frozen in time somewhere in July.  The 80,000 some odd thoughts continue to spin in my head daily like other humans, but nothing to very little on paper or even a coffee shop napkin.

I have been trying to save my own life and that has taken more effort than my writing can handle.  Maybe I am not a writer.  Maybe I am just someone who can write.  It is as if it comes naturally yet it only comes when I am connected to that soul or self I perceive to be me.  For the past two months, that me has been in peril which took all of my attention. 

We took a little toodle north to Mendocino County this week to my beloved Mar Vista and "Rosie's Beach."  A quick two night stay costs much more than it did in 1987 when I first laid eyes on that sweet spot of earth and sky. However, it was well worth some savings from my last dead end job this summer.  I can say that I was glad to be there and we had some unusual hot weather with a chillingly calm ocean that seemed to say that all waves were sent somewhere else.  Eerie  a bit.

We met several great dogs on the beach-Kai, Dave and Ike.  So different from the aging Greyhounds we live with and dogs having fun in the sand, surf and slop of "Rosie's Beach."  I had a harder time feeling the joy which I usually do walking with my toes in the sand and I tried, I really did.  I just watched and breathed and focused on everything I saw.  I drank a lot of tea and tried to not worry about our dogs at home, or my life, or our lives.  I did manage to just be for the most part. 

Mar Vista has a new gardener though we did not know that as I sat in front of Cottage #1 in one of the weathered chairs drinking ginger ale and watching the sky change.  I was there quite a while just doing more of that being, when a black dog rounded the corner of the chicken compound and jogged towards me.  I watched, doing more being, and began to ask her who she was.  She had a tennis ball in her mouth and no collar.  Wonderful coco colored eyes met mine and a wagging tail.  She dropped the ball at my feet.

We began to play ball and I thought, where did you come from and who is your person?  She had been to the beach I could tell and she was such a sweet girl.  I kept asking her and began to worry.  I began to plot taking her home if someone had mistakenly lost her.  What a great dog I was thinking.  Eventually she tired and stood looking towards the Mar Vista enclosed garden with the ball in her mouth.  I asked her if her person was up there and she stood staring.

Eventually, the gardener appeared and her ears laid flat to her head and she began to wag her tail.  As he came towards us the wagging increased and we found out that Sadie is Patrick's dog who waits for him while he works.  I relaxed. 

I really enjoyed Patrick's story of living in urban settings as he works his way up the coast of California in life.  He knows all about the milky way that shows up in the sky above where we chatted.  He lives in the country and farms and works at Mar Vista.  Lucky, smart man and lucky, smart dog.

We had to say goodbye to Mar Vista today and I know that this last visit was farther apart than the last because of the hardships we have faced in the last two years.  However, that graceful spot of earth still holds a healing power even if I am not healed.  I was glad to be coming home to our old dogs and worried especially about Jade, who just gets whiter every day.

Having unpacked, washed the Mini, and done some laundry, I began to hang it outside to dry as our little old laundry man sauntered towards me as is his routine to observe, sniff and pause for more petting upon his diminishing, skinny old man self. Glad to be home for another day of living.

Thank you Mar Vista, I needed that!

Why Don't We Wake The Dead?

I am the youngest daughter of a woman who left the planet on this day, July 23rd.  Every year since her exit, I note the day is coming by wearing a weird T-shirt or just praying for a moment or two or like today, driving west to the cemetery because I could.

My sisters probably don't even remember the date and we have different ways of looking at the obvious.  My sisters had a different childhood, in many ways more violent than mine, almost a decade later.  My wee self caught the breadth of our mother's sinking into alcoholism's clasp and it was darker in some ways, less violent physically, yet no less about surviving it.

And so it was that I cut the last of another wave of deep red roses from the bushes in the backyard, hung a load of laundry, ate lunch and put on the radio for our old dogs.  Driving west I thought of a few things but mostly the muggy, overcast day today, not unlike July 23rd in 1991.  I am sure I was focusing on my own piddly life at the time, unaware that my mother was to die, alone in her living room, that very night.

I didn't have much to say once I parked the Mini at the gate of the cemetery today and walked up the steep slope to my mother's austere grave.  I thought there might be something more as I placed the red roses as a way to honor the dead, someone I knew very little, yet someone who deserves some kind of remembrance, regardless of her great shortcomings. 

There wasn't.  There just wasn't much to say and that is a good thing.  That means I have done my work with regards Mom, and really, her grave is not befitting someone who was so complex, so restrained yet so sloppy when she was drunk, someone who read voraciously about everything yet someone who left no letter or no will for her three children.  At least, that's what her husband said. 

Ah yes, the husband.  Even at my mother's grave, I realized that if he visited this desert of a memorial which he alone created, he will see those roses and he will know who left them.  He will see that I am still here, even though her grave marker, a strange hunk of stainless steel with some kind of "you're the love of my life" secret code that he left on the face of it, never claims children marked he life.  I guess I do feel astonished at the selfishness of others even in death.

I wonder if we could wake the dead, what questions would we ask of them?  If we could have our own time to finally say all that hadn't been said, what would it be? For me, I would simply ask Helen, "How do you like the roses Mom?"

Sir Nathan

Sometimes fellow employees make unlikely friends.  Sometimes people you work with are simply amazing and you consider yourself lucky, blessed even.  Often we hope we are one of those people who make that kind of an impact and yet, we never believe that is so, or simply put, we make a mark with others and don't even realize it.

Such is the case of a man we call Sir Nathan.  For a few of us, he is the reason we find a way to get through six months of working in a shame and blame factory.  He is the reason we feel like we can walk away from an abusive boss and just breathe.  He gives us a way to take the high road with shame and feel that we still have our power.  He is our rudder, our full sails in a tempest storm, brethren, kin.  We are very, very lucky to have crossed his path.

For me, I feel grateful to have left while I still have an ounce of self esteem.  I got out when the getting was good.  Three others preceded me in the last month. Who knows where this will lead and I can say, tonight, I am trying to shine a bright, bright light on the good times.  I am making the effort because there was much said that I did not deserve to hear and felt my character and my work ethic were demeaned and sullied. 

Who was that they were talking to?  Certainly not someone who interviewed for another job before her work shift arriving at work still, 10 minutes early.  Certainly not someone who had her references checked, a background check, a physical, a drug screening and several phones calls all on her own time, still showing up for work early. Certainly not.

I leave with tears for Sir Nathan whose company I shall no longer keep yet whose bright, sarcastic, fun, deep, literate and literal, existential, genuine, calm, kind and reassuring self made a lasting mark on my heart and my life.  Thank you Sir Nathan for your help, your company, your brilliance, your support and your fine, fine wit.  I shall miss you forever and a day.  You rule.

What Doesn't Kill You

The trite saying seems to say that "What doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger," and yet, for most of life, it doesn't even come close to feeling like that.

Since January 9 of this year, I returned to my former job making a nursery, owned by three coworkers, thrive.  Thrive is a code word for work your employees to death while demeaning them, creating a pyramid of favoritism that reminds one of high school, underestimate most of them and puff yourself up to look like a caring, helpful and somewhat less than totally fake retail human.  Huh.  Thrive indeed.

I have worked like a demon each week and especially creating the nursery into a place of beauty after a very cold winter.  Winter became Spring and people poured in with their checkbooks.  It looked good and an early start of gardening began to appear.  Some vampires skirted the sunshine to appear with their sunglasses on asking repeated questions like some kind of trial lawyer and instructing us to pick up plants for them as if we were Egyptian slaves.  Well, we are slaves but actually all white all now. 

I am tired.  Or rather, I became tired of the games, the drama, the shame and blame bestowed upon me by the three heads of a business built upon a 1941 farm stand that ended up at the busy corner where several new retail ventures threaten to close it down.  Location, location, location.  In the past month and a half, two people quit and one was fired.  Four new chickens were brought in to join Lucy and Gertie, much to their chicken chagrin.  Humans go, chickens enter.

I was horrified when, in April, the sharp comments and ensuing blame became the standard for my low paying job. A strange energy began to take up residence and the nursery workers became the pin cushion for barbed comments and overtly hostile criticism for efforts not commenced at lighting speed nor executed with the precision of a surgeon.  The slaves were becoming slackers?  Hardly.

For someone, like myself, who came to work as a favor for another coworker at death's door, gave all she had and about 20% beyond that, surely the smallest worker in residence, the hostile management traits began to make me fume and blister.  I wondered what I had done to deserve that kind of erratic harshness and I wondered what had happened to my "beautiful wife?"  When the spring was over, business slowed radically.  We all began to be bored and searching for projects and tasks to keep us employed. The slaves became restless or at least, I did.

First, one cashier fled to Wyoming, then another veteran moved off to Oregon and then a third was fired for some obscure reason still unfathomable.  I continued my search for a respite, each day wound up in knots and each day trying to see how I might act more generously.  In the end, I was just pissed and I didn't care how it looked.

I am not really excited though truthfully, a vacation would be something I could get behind.  I feel exhausted physically and emotionally.  It turns out that I walk about 30 miles a week there by my new pedometer and that is a slow day in the nursery.  I am not excited yet I am overly ready for calm and direct criticism of my efforts given without shame.  I am ready for a higher wage and medical benefits.  I am ready for P.T.O. and a chance to be something more than a pyramid slave.  Simple. Calm. Steady.

What doesn't kill you requires a brief hospital stay is more like what I imagine.  Stronger? Not so much. 

Adios.

Omi's 9th Birthday

It is hard to believe, yet true just the same, that our Greyhound, Omi will be nine years old on June 1st.  Yes, Omi has aged in body, meaning now she sports white around her amazing Cleopatra eyes, though not in spirit.  OK, maybe a slower gait during the morning walk but otherwise, still uncharacteristically hyper and frenetic in her fine self.

Omi talks.  She has a verbal language whose translation has eluded us for many years.  It sounds mournful at times or simply a question repeated over and over.  Whow, whow, whow or something like that.  Sometimes it makes you want to scream but mostly, you wonder what she has been saying?

Omi, an ex-racer who raced in Mexico, one of the worst Greyhound betting countries which still uses live lures to get the dogs to hurl themselves down the track towards their prey, sometimes hitting the wall and busting their skulls open, sometimes winning but mostly losing only to be shipped to the U.S. for more of the same.

Omi won a few races in Mexico but she was still shipped off to Arizona to be kept in squalid kennels at some run down track where humans came to bet on her chances. She is a beautiful red fawn Greyhound who appears to have had her eyebrows penciled in by a professional.  She is a Gemini after all.

Today, I bought new collars for Omi and Jade and because it is a hot, hot last day of May in our neck of the woods, a couple of dog baths in a few hours to cool down.  I remember the day that Jade and I travelled to Auburn, CA to meet Omi and she raced up to me and licked my ear.  We drove home a few hours later and the rest is our history.

May all Greyhounds find their new homes, shedding the exploitation of track racing and horrifying conditions and may their humans all be as lucky as we are to have our birthday girl.

Happy Birthday Omi!

Time With The Buddha

I must work tomorrow, a paid holiday for many folks in our world.  For me, I try not to think about the families that will be gathering tomorrow eating dried out BBQ, macaroni salad dosed with enough fat to stop a beating heart, time together and dessert, ah dessert. It is Monday and I am going to work and no, it isn't time and a half I shall be earning.  Still, I have a job today.

The only benefits besides getting a paycheck that I receive is a helluva discount to purchase nursery items.  Working inside a thriving business means you walk by things, see plants delivered fresh out of the grower's grasp- stuff you think about buying with your very hard earned wages, at a discount.  It feels like something though not dental insurance exactly.

I began, weeks ago to walk by this Buddha statue and pause to rub his bald head.  Sure, one is supposed to rub his belly but his head is hip level for me.  A smiling Buddha, I began to ask for hope to visit my heart, for painful times to melt away, for release, for success, for a good day or just about any kind of magic that might help me understand how I got here. I passed him several times a day.  I rubbed his head, usually counterclockwise.

I know that The Buddha had a few things to say about suffering and so, he is an entity, though no less made mystical than Jesus or Joe Smith.  "Life is difficult, the Buddha said...The Buddha acknowledged the struggles of ordinary life-we age, we get sick, and eventually we die; we don't get what we want, we get what we don't want, and even the good times pass..."-Coffee With The Buddha by Joan Duncan Oliver.

Sometimes we do get what we want using our 40% discount on hard goods in the nursery like The Buddha himself planted on our patio at home!

 

Its Not Easy Being Green

I came home feeling pretty saggy after a day at work, in the sunshine where three humans called in sick.  True, sometimes you just need an extra day off, for a variety of reasons but my place of work is a small operation and so, there is a ripple effect.

It is true also that my perspective for quite a few months has been very dark and lacking genuine enthusiasm.  I put one foot in front of the other but it feels empty most days.  At what some people call too young to leave, I feel I have few choices left to me.  I am considered old enough for a senior discount where I work.  I often feel overly criticized or just under appreciated but don’t we all?

Maybe not.

I work with a young man who is the new golden boy.  He is a wonderful person to work with who often hums with energy and excitement for his job.  He is a joy, bright, strong, endlessly courteous and fun.  He is unusual in a way that makes everyone’s day better.  He is helpful and hopeful and has everything in front of him, at 20.  The bosses have noticed and I am thrilled to see that is happening for him.  My hope is that he has more and more of that in life. 

I cannot say that I know where we began to go wrong but somehow, I became less favored at work and that seemed to happen as my attitude for my life became less and less hopeful. I cannot seem to change that trend and  I accept the consequences of my place in life though it is hard to come home ebullient like the golden one. I might give it all up if there was a way to become more golden again and a little less green! 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hpiIWMWWVco

The Shortest Sister

Tomorrow is my oldest sister's birthday.  You would hardly see her as "old" if you met her on the street and most people, though fully cognizant of her powerful self, see the impish, fun-loving leprechaun beneath the porcelain skin and dark eyes.  Few people even notice that she is small.  No sirree.

My sister took me with her to Cloverleaf Ranch bonfires when I was very young and I got to experience being part of a summer camp that we could never afford.  My sister brought me along as she worked as a student nurse and her sweetness still makes me smile every time I drive past Cloverleaf.  I was so lucky to have gone backstage with her.  Free candy too!

I have been the fortunate one, to have had a sister who came when our mother's alcoholism was at it's bitter journey's end and attempted to help me escape the horrifying darkness under which I had lived while Helen cast off every single bit of humanity for some bourbon and coke.  My sister helped me crawl through the window and no one else would.

I was held up by my sister as I came to stand beside our father's bedside in intensive care as he struggled to come out of having one of his lung's removed due to cancer.  He was in so much pain, having had his sternum sawed open and then put back together with staples.  My knees went week and I was slayed that the man who was always so angry at the dinner table was crying out in pain.  My sister held me up and no one else did.

Many years later all three daughters stood on a small yacht in the San Francisco bay, fog surrounding us as we ebbed in the tide below the Golden Gate and began to scatter my father's ashes.  We were all weeping, casting colorful, long-stemmed roses overboard with the last of Frank's remains and my sister began to read what she had written for our father.  She stopped, began to cry and asked me to read her words.  A freighter passed by and filled the air with her ship's horn and we all started laughing.  Yet, I remember that my sister had written that she was the shortest sister, after all.  At that moment, on the deck of that ship, in the fog, in the moment that was surreal in so many ways, I thought, "huh?"

Life has a way of changing course and some of us struggle.  That is my story to be sure.  However, my sister works so very hard in her profession, for her children who do not even seem to understand who has their back, for her friends and those she loves in spite of themselves.  My sister is big.  Very big. 

Happy Birthday Sis.  Thinking of you and looking up!

The View From Mrs. Oliva's Kitchen

Today is my day off and though I did many things before a Dr. appointment, I had a few moments that beckoned me towards Geary Dr., a street that I often pass by marveling at all the lovely homes that appear to represent an idyllic life, something we know little about at our corner.

I am exhausted at the end of each week, having dealt with humans in all their retail colors, some of whom either need an ass whooping or simply, a manners colonic, and the three owners for whom I work who seem to have forgotten what it is like to be "a worker among workers."  I was having a good hair day and taking care of business.  I was glad to be out of the drama zone. 

I turned the Mini down Geary, thinking I would just drive by and see.  What was I gonna see? What was I gonna feel? Putter, putter down a street lined with manicured lawns and tidy planter boxes in a suburb that held the rich kids of the high school where my sisters and I spent our not so great teen years.  I love this area, knowing that I once came close to buying a house here.  I still feel like it calls my name. Putter, putter to roll by the house I was looking for and see a small woman standing on a planter box, turn slightly and dismiss me.

I puttered past, my heart beating a bitter faster and thought, it must be her but do I have the address correct?  I flipped a U turn and decided to buck up and park across the street.  I got out and walked across the street to the driveway.  She did not turn from the window and I approached.  She stopped and turned to me when I asked, "Do you recognize me?"

And so began a reconnection of almost 50 years since I was my older sister's younger one and the friend she had who was The Homecoming Queen.  She was gracious and warm, even in her immense grief, and took me on a tour of her mother's house and backyard that are still sharp in my child's eye.  Her mother died this winter and I wrote a brief note out of great respect, sadness and gratitude for the woman who showed me love and kindness during a sorrowful time for our family. 

We sat in the kitchen, where Mrs. Oliva baked cookies for me and offered what may have seemed like a simple kindness to a shy, quiet me but was, indeed, a poultice for my broken heart.  Mrs. Oliva turned, saw me and loved me and I never forgot her presence.  Sitting in that kitchen, listening to stories about a family and a life, much different from mine, yet lived so close by, gave me wings today in order to see the view from Mrs. Oliva's kitchen. 

I am buoyed by the idea that what we do in life has lasting effects upon those we encounter.  A small act of kindess can last decades and perhaps, a lifetime.  Why not start now?

The Other F Word

Things have not been silent in my mind for the past month yet my fingers have refrained from reaching for the keyboard for various existential reasons.  However, today I was struck by yet another facet to the strange goings on where I work-a small business in a silly little town in not-so-golden California.  Home of the 10% sales tax.

Today, I watched while the psycho co-worker I share my Mondays and Tuesdays with chatted up one of the bosses as is often the case.  I often watch them as we wind our way through the day, clustering as a duo for 20 minutes at a time and it sure looks like some kind of fan club. Let's get matching hats shall we?

To an outsider, or maybe I should just say, to someone who is not part of the work "A" list, it looks to be that my co-worker is groomed for additional authority, special projects and of course, special consideration.  From where I stand with my non-existent stature, it appears that no one else at work is privy to that tryst nor will I ever see what they see in one another save preference and devotion.  Duh!

I always hoped that I would be able to "retire" after giving a Supervisor position a run past my own inner dialog about preference and fairness.  I wanted to test myself to look deeper than all the people for whom I have worked that have seemed to fail the litmus test of fairness and equality in management.  I have begun to feel that I shall not find a way in life to be the kind of Supervisor who instills greatness in those less fortunate.  I wanted to be a part of others being recognized accurately and also to encourage with some authority behind that hope.

Alas, I am part of the grunt class and yet, I have eyes and I see so many things.  For me, that kind of favoritism is the other "F" word.

The Golden Rule And J.A.G.

I have been thinking of Jonathan-J.A.G. to his fellow employees at LandPaths, for over a week now as I worked through a difficult week at work, physically and emotionally.  I am spent today.  Tomorrow, the memorial for Jonathan will be held and I have decided to go for a hike to honor him, think of him and celebrate him.  That pain of losing him is still real and sharp for me.  Perhaps it is just as much about feeling so much loss this past year-jobs, money, Ginger, friends and family, as about Jonathan in particular.

And so I will hope that all of the folks who journey to honor Jonathan Glass tomorrow, including a large contingent of cyclists, will find peace and company in their grief. 

This week, for me, embodied the idea of The Golden Rule-or simply doing for others as we would want to experience.  I would say that my work life has ended up in the dung heap due to some very dysfunctional leadership and a history of inappropriate favoritism where I work.

One would not think it should be this hard but sometimes life lessons carry a punch.  More like an anvil in a glove!  I was able to pass on some love, tucked into small actions, for my coworkers who seem to get as little praise as I do.  Maybe I made a difference for someone.

In the meantime, I am gonna read on the couch with the Greyhounds slumbering nearby.  Peace be with all of us tonight.

 

 

Remembering Jonathan Glass

Perhaps, just perhaps, I am one of the lucky ones.  Maybe. Sometimes. Living with many memories, hopes, disappointments and dark feelings for a lifetime helps one get to know oneself very well.  That voice of despair is always there, a little bit to the left of my left ear.  A demon, a thought born of stress and a very dark upbringing.  Exercise helps and being outdoors can send that demon packing.

Having said all of that, I am remembering a man named Jonathan Glass who died in February.  A brilliant, capable, funny, outdoorsy man who ran LandPaths for many years gave me the chance to show up on Thursdays, clean up the database a bit and be a part of something positive.  Jonathan gave me the chance to allay my own darkness in a time of unemployment.  He gave me a purpose and a place to sit.  He helped me to belong and feel purposeful.  He helped me stay alive.

And so it was with great sadness to know that his own hidden despair ended his all-too-brief life here in northern California.  To say he is missed is not to fully comprehend how Jonathan made open space happen here in Sonoma County.  He was cherished and his absence here is profoundly sorrowful.  There is a great emptiness where that beaming smile lit up the room.

May he now be free and may the rest of us find a way to ask for help, show understanding where we only think of ourselves, take chances, make a statement and know that living does mean that we are one of the lucky ones.

The Lemur In The Backseat

I look up
  from the overpriced plant that I am
  watering,
  in a nursery where I work
  for pittance wondering
  what happened to my beautiful life,
  to see a silver sedan pulling into the parking lot,
  slowly moving forward seeking the perfect
  parking spot,
  and there is a lemur, wide eyed and taking in all that washes
  before her through a  car window,
  short in the seat,
  she is tiny and very real.
I look up
  realizing that my lemur is an old woman,
  shrunken by age,
  viewing the world through eyes
  like pie plates,
  on her outing to the nursery where she will move slowly
  on the arm of her adult child,
  with those huge, hopeful eyes upon all
  that she will be missing.
I look up
  and wonder what happened to all that I had
  planned and know
  one day soon,
  I will become the lemur in the back seat.

That'll Be Me

That'll be me in about 20 years
 with my translucent skin over sharp
 cheek bones,
 asking a retail clerk to get something for me that I cannot
 reach,
 my teeth hanging on by a thread of tissue,
 my eyes will become distant as if I see the end of my life but
 I am not there yet,
 just this frail, petite wisp of a body that
 doesn't walk well or quickly anymore.
That'll be me with my thinning hair and excellent manners which
 tell the story of a much different generation where
 texting was something strange about to take over a nation and
 great Pie was the way we told others
 about our joy for living.
That'll be me with my ache to be seen,
 long gone now as others look past my diminishing body,
 they fail to see themselves or even realize that
 one day
 they will be saying to themselves
That'll be me
too.

A Sense Of Wonder In A Pile Of Dung

I can say that life has been challenging, knowing that, in itself, is a euphemism for a bunch of crap. Making a living in California, where our sales tax is about 10% is very "challenging" to say the least.  Finding a job that is tolerable and perhaps, enjoyable, that pays more than $10 an hour, without benefits of course, is almost unheard of, to say the least.  Getting a job at all is like magic.  I wonder if things will ever be different here or anywhere post 2008.

So, enough said about the hardships though after a Roto Rooter bill to the tune of $337.50-what is the .50 for?-and a broken VCR, well making $10 an hour doesn't leave much else.  Groceries, utilities, dog food and gasoline round out the full spectrum.

I found my sense of wonder in the rising moon tonight, albeit viewed through the power lines, to be my own talisman.  I do try to find those things that make me wonder why I am here.  Sometimes it is the grandest sunset from our driveway or the stars at night over our old, freezing house or the about-to-be full moon. 

All of these images were fueled by a book that my mother had called "The Sense Of Wonder" by Rachel Carson.  I often looked through that book that my mother strategically placed on the coffee table.  For me, a child already too old for her years, it awakened who I was already in that painful childhood home. I was fascinated by the photography of the magic of nature.  I still feel that profoundly though I wonder, every day, why am I here and why is life so damn tough?

Finding that "sense of wonder" in a pile of crap is harder but never far from my grasp.  I feel fortunate to still have that desire and amazement of all that nature offers to us here on earth, struggling and not, rich and not, wise and not.  Thank you mother earth!

Sunrise

A hawk sits
 at the edge of sunrise,
a desolate perch against the growing blue,
swollen feathers braced against the frigid morning as
I run by on
 this February morning,
disappointed with my life yet
 still moving forward, running on old, skinny legs,
hoping,
clueless,
fragile.
A hawk sits
 at the edge of sunrise,
her silhouette black against the growing light,
at the edge of the lake where I
run by on
 this February morning.

Jade Man Doody Turns Ten!

One of our Greyhounds had his 10th birthday yesterday.  For a Greyhound, he is getting ancient and it is so important to keep loving him and to cherish every day with him.  Don't get me wrong, he is a big Diva-man.  However, he is the most gentle dog who has ever called me theirs and he still cracks me up that he is so very serious.

We celebrated by singing Happy Birthday to our Jade man and he and Omi got some turkey in their food too.  Yucky meat for a vegetarian and so it is that Jade was treated like his royal self.  I am one of his minions and gladly so!  I love those big Greyhound guys and he weighs almost as much as I do!

Happy Birthday Jade-no one wears a hat quite like you do.

A Grief Shared & The Past Comes Knocking

An old friend and I had lunch on Saturday at a pseudo trendy place in our town.  As the entree was being served, my friend's story of her mother's recent death spilled across the table between us.  I listened full tilt forward and left my fork where it lay.  My friend began to cry and I saw that sharp pain in her green eyes blaze, something I had seldom seen in those eyes over our many years as friends.  I watched and listened riveted to my chair.

Her story was much about her shock which is still seated in her heart and the cascade of words about the lack of a last will and testament, her cousin's deception and betrayal in a matter of days, the changed locks to her mother's house and an archaic law that tries to tell my friend that she is not her mother's daughter.

For my friend, there is still time to catch her grief and she will.  For me, I was haunted by her story which led me to the vivid memory of my mother's face and her body the night she died.  For me, I was right back there the day after lunch with my friend, hollow and raw with the vision of my mother's slackened face and half closed eyelids shockingly still. I was right there by her bedside.

I began to cry driving to work only to realize as I drove that my friend's grief is a shared one and still so very sharp for me. I was surprised at myself and yet knew that the past can always come knocking and it does again and again, sometimes without a proper introduction.

The Museum Of Failure

Today, I was off from my temporary and changing status at the nursery to take a test.  It was a test that had been scheduled before my current, albeit, temporarily engaged semi-employed status.  So, I used the early morning to get some running in-I was tired and the run was very slow.  I met two amazing dogs that were bully breeds and yet all wiggly and snotty and loving with me.  They are so much happier than our solemn Greyhound duo that it rocked my thoughts and made me realize how much I miss having a dog that is happy. I miss Rosie. She broke the Greyhound mold.

My partner and I both accepted the invite to test for jobs with The City of Santa Rosa today.  So we both went to sit with almost 60 others in a freezing auditorium for two and a half hours, more than 150 complex questions and enough tense energy to be a witness to being unemployed in Sonoma County.  Over 400 humans applied for two jobs and a chance to be put "on the list" for future openings. Almost 300 tested.

I must say, this is my second experience of City tests that attempt to hone the numbers of applicants to the top 5%.  This test was a butt kicker and I felt exhausted near the end trying to find answers in my head for all those questions.  For me, I was not attached to the outcome yet there for the experience and an I-have-no-idea-where-this-will-lead-me afternoon.

Before I ever sat down though, I went to stand with the other seemingly depressed and silent humans in the lobby.  I stood near the back wall and a very tall, well built blond woman smiled at me and asked me how I was doing.  Unusual I thought.  Most people look down not wanting to make eye contact with the competition.  We chatted and right away I thought she was funny, unpretentious and downright bawdy.  She seemed fun and I wished her a perfect 98% so she could get to the "oral boards" that are promised by a top score.

I thought, as I sat down at my table with the scantron and two pencils, that maybe she was a divine placement.  My idea of "God" constantly gets challenged by life, insecurity and other humans.  After I left the test of which I must have blown part of simply due to the fact that I had no idea how to work those word problems, I was exhausted and headed for Goodwill to find some warm clothes for work.

"The Museum of failure" is a chapter in the book which I am finishing called "The Antidote, Happiness For People Who Can't Stand Positive Thinking" by Oliver Burkeman.  I have loved this book though I have not read it rapidly.  The message is tough getting through to me though I sought it out.  The museum of failure, for me, can be the cruelest message of my thoughts when I feel lost to find a good job with promise. 

It seems that all of us are trying to find security and the more we try, the more unhappy we are inclined to become so says Mr. Burkeman.

For me, for today, I am glad to go back to work and do my best, probably in the rain, with people I love in the great outdoors.  The future still exists though I am working on being less attached to calling the end result happiness.

http://www.oliverburkeman.com/

The Beautiful Faces Of Wednesday Morning

I have been working, temporarily at my favorite nursery.  Coming back after four months has been as if taking a very long drink after walking for miles without hope. Coming back has been like walking into the arms of someone who loves me after a near miss.  Coming back has been like watching the amazing sunrise and sunset in this January after losing hope of finding work.  Coming back has been like rejoining those I have come to admire and to love as coworkers and as friends at a very busy corner, in an open location where cars zoom past a healing place for me.

Today, like the past five, it was frosty and cold as the sun crept towards us.  We have been pruning, tagging, staking and burying bare root roses in the beds made by my stalwart coworkers.  We have been doing this together as the kind of team one hopes to find with one another.  We are all very different and yet, an award winning combo come together.  In many ways, we are the kind of people who needed a second chance.  Together we make magic.

I unlatched the back gate after driving one of our ancient electric carts to the back for some soil.  There, twenty feet beyond me stood three handsome bucks, solid, now motionless, horns aloft, dark eyes upon me.  I greeted them.  They watched me cautiously come in the gate.  They began to move towards the fence once I scooted the cart along the access road.  Big, beautiful faces pausing on a crystal clear blue sky freezing morning in January where I came to work, a second chance tiny woman feeling free and oh-so-lucky to have been welcomed back by Prickett's Nursery and welcomed by the beautiful faces of the buck trio creekside.

The Grand Canyon's Holodeck

This morning, during my Monday morning run, as my feet hit the cold, muddy ground, I began to imagine myself transported to The Grand Canyon.  I began to pack the biggest suitcase that I own full of high tech camping equipment-compact, high priced REI stuff that could become a campsite.  Dream on girlie.  There is a small stove, sleep pad, camping pots and pans, freeze-dried food and my wishes.

I ran on and pictured the plane touch down in Vegas and our rental car pulling out towards the road to The Grand Canyon. Jettisoned by my thoughts, bearing down on my tired legs from a 10 mile hike yesterday up Mt. St. Helena, I began to see the canyon walls as we walked down the Kaibab trail towards the bottom.  Another planet, another time and place, I keep having these thoughts every day.

Get me out of here.  I want out of this life right here.  I ran up to the top of the dam where I can turn and see the front of the Mayacama's ridge where I always make a wish for a better life, a fuller life and imagine my idea of "God" sitting there and nodding at me. I imagined the peaks of the canyon, red and orange and mysterious.  The history of our planet, the history of life hidden there and exposed like a jewel that beckons us downward just to catch the light and feel inconsequential.  We are just that.

At some point in my run, I was there and not here in cold, northern California where real estate values are stalled along with good jobs.  Things are stretched tight as we pay the bills with money at the beginning of the month hoping it will last until the end.  Today, the horse barn where I volunteer said they might be looking for someone for two hours a week with pay to muck stalls, feed the horses, clean up regardless of weather.  I said yes even though I thought it would only pay for dog food.  Just the same, I know the people and I know the horses.  Say yes to something I tell myself. Say yest and maybe my luck will change.

If there were a Grand Canyon Holodeck I would have been long gone by now and it wouldn't even take a suitcase.  Beam me up Scotty, I need a geographic.