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In times of old, The Furies protected Mother Right. If a mother (or any woman) was harmed, The Furies swooped down and took their vengeance. They were one of the last vestiges of a world that existed before the patriarchy. When we feel righteous anger, it is The Furies who are calling out to us to make what is wrong right again.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Bravo, Mr. Olbermann
If you have access to MSNBC, watch Countdown with Keith Olbermann. They replay it at 9:00 p.m. PST. The last few minutes are amazing! He goes after Rumsfeld and the Bush administration with guts and grace. I haven't found a video of it yet, but here's the transcript. (It's not a direct link, so it may change. It's called "Feeling morally, intellectually confused?") I was planning to have my TV service switched off today, but I'm glad I waited. His commentary was a great thing to hear and see.
1 comments
Home Again
Had to go to Eugene today, where we were supposed to go the day Linda died. Had to come right back, however, because Mario has work in the morning. We had a good time. We always have a good time together. Although I'm still so dazed and confused and tired. I'm starting to dream again, which is good. Had about eight dreams this morning. Dreamed my mother died. Not good. And I had a leopard as a kind of house pet. Or a jaguar.
Lay on the couch most of the day Monday. Serena came over in the morning, sat down near me and worked on something. I was so sure she'd disappear from our lives the day after the memorial service. It was good to have her near. I had to resist the urge to hug on her. She's not a mushy child. So I don't mush on her...too much.
The rest of Linda's family went home. They were all so gracious and kind, even when I was cranky. I admire that kind of grace.
Monday night they had the book discussion of Mercy, Unbound at our library. It was fun to sit and listen to people discuss my book. I wanted to join in, but I try to wait as long as possible because as soon as I talk at these things conversation often comes to a halt. One person described the book as a compassionate look at one girl's life (or something like that, although he said it better). I liked the word compassionate because the world could always use more compassion. And I do think it is a compassionate story. No villains. No bad guys. I think stories without villains are harder to write, as I'm sure I've mentioned previously. When you have a villain, it's so easy to write a story. In real life, most people are just doing the best they can; they aren't villainous.
Today I got an email from one of my teachers about Mercy, Unbound, and she mentioned compassion, too. I'll reprint the letter below, not because I'm trying to show how great I am or anything, but because it's such a lovely letter and it meant so much to me. As I've said before, when someone compliments my books, it feels as though they are praising something separate from me but something beloved, almost as though they are praising my kin—or my children.
The letter reads, in part:
"I have finally found time to read your beautiful new book, Mercy, Unbound. I finished it tonight and then looked at the inside back cover, which calls it a book for teens. Well maybe, but I wept through the whole last section, so I think it maybe has more potential than that—I'm almost 60.
Your voice in this book is so compassionate and poetic. I think you've really found something, a kind of grace. It's fabulous. I hope it really makes a big impact. I was so touched from the beginning....it's very healing in general, speaking to the whole disorder of society.
Good for you!! You've made one of those grand healing gestures through literature. Brava!"
Isn't that lovely?
I am so fortunate.
And I'm off to sleep.
May You Dream in Beauty!
Lay on the couch most of the day Monday. Serena came over in the morning, sat down near me and worked on something. I was so sure she'd disappear from our lives the day after the memorial service. It was good to have her near. I had to resist the urge to hug on her. She's not a mushy child. So I don't mush on her...too much.
The rest of Linda's family went home. They were all so gracious and kind, even when I was cranky. I admire that kind of grace.
Monday night they had the book discussion of Mercy, Unbound at our library. It was fun to sit and listen to people discuss my book. I wanted to join in, but I try to wait as long as possible because as soon as I talk at these things conversation often comes to a halt. One person described the book as a compassionate look at one girl's life (or something like that, although he said it better). I liked the word compassionate because the world could always use more compassion. And I do think it is a compassionate story. No villains. No bad guys. I think stories without villains are harder to write, as I'm sure I've mentioned previously. When you have a villain, it's so easy to write a story. In real life, most people are just doing the best they can; they aren't villainous.
Today I got an email from one of my teachers about Mercy, Unbound, and she mentioned compassion, too. I'll reprint the letter below, not because I'm trying to show how great I am or anything, but because it's such a lovely letter and it meant so much to me. As I've said before, when someone compliments my books, it feels as though they are praising something separate from me but something beloved, almost as though they are praising my kin—or my children.
The letter reads, in part:
"I have finally found time to read your beautiful new book, Mercy, Unbound. I finished it tonight and then looked at the inside back cover, which calls it a book for teens. Well maybe, but I wept through the whole last section, so I think it maybe has more potential than that—I'm almost 60.
Your voice in this book is so compassionate and poetic. I think you've really found something, a kind of grace. It's fabulous. I hope it really makes a big impact. I was so touched from the beginning....it's very healing in general, speaking to the whole disorder of society.
Good for you!! You've made one of those grand healing gestures through literature. Brava!"
Isn't that lovely?
I am so fortunate.
And I'm off to sleep.
May You Dream in Beauty!
Labels: Linda, Mercy Unbound
2 comments
Monday, August 28, 2006
Wild and Slow
John C. Mohawk has an interesting essay about culture, food, and diet. Another essay, written by Janet Brown, appears on the same website, a lovely piece about apples.
1 comments
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Good Job, Bob
Did you hear Bob Schieffer's commentary about Hezbollah and our incompetant Emperor? Nice.
0 comments
End Days
Linda's memorial is done. It's been a week and a day since she died. It's been a difficult week. With ups and downs and all arounds. I became more and more exasperated as the week went on. I kept telling myself I needed to let go of expectations. Needed to realize life had changed. I kept hearing Sister Bea Wilder admonishing me, "Things change. Get over it." For years I've had a second home: Linda's. Her dogs were my dogs. Her wildflowers were mine. Her door was always open to me. I was always welcome. That's over. She is gone, and so is her home.
Gotta get used to it.
Our day started at 6:30 a.m. and did not let up until about 6:45 p.m. I won't bore you with the details of setting up the place and all that entailed. We were ready by the time it was ready to begin.
The memorial went well. I think I did my job. I'm a good public speaker. When I do book readings, I usually do well. At those times I am establishing a relationship between the audience and myself that is essentially about me. This is not my first memorial. I have facilitated one other. For a memorial, it's not about me and my relationship with the audience. I need to put them at ease enough for them to trust me to carry them along on this journey we take together. But it's not about me being charming or a star or anything. I am the facilitator: the conduit for their memories. It's a completely different way of speaking, and I have to be aware of that. (We've been a part of two other memorials in the last six months. Three dead friends in six months. I hope that trend ends here today.)
I began the memorial with a kind of eulogy—or liturgy, maybe. Her brother in law called it that. I thanked the family and the people who helped Linda and Serena during her illness. I talked about her life and her importance to the community. I could have gone on all day, but I just skimmed the surface of her life. I called my talk "Sauntering with Linda."
I said, "Before she got sick again, Linda and I would walk in the woods several times a week. These weren’t really hikes. If you’ve ever walked in the woods with Linda, you know what I mean. She noticed everything. We sauntered rather than hiked. Back in the day, in Europe, pilgrims used to walk to the Holy Land. When people asked where they were going, they’d say, “a la sainte terre.” To the holy land. So they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. That’s what it was like walking with Linda. We were always sauntering to the holy land and on the holy land—because she believed the woods, nature, this place is holy land. Walking with her, sauntering with her, was always an amazing and wonderful experience."
Then we told jokes. The audience was skeptical of this at first, but soon we were laughing. People got up and told jokes for about half 'n hour. It was great fun. Serena laughed. I sat where I could keep eye contact with her, so I would know how she was doing. Then she did her powerpoint photo essay of herself and Linda. After that, we told Linda stories. This went on for some time. I didn't hurry it. We allowed for moments of silence.
On the program for the memorial, we put quotes I'd found underlined in her books and quotes by John Muir, whose life and writing she admired:
When we contemplate the whole globe as one great dewdrop, striped and dotted with continents and islands, flying through space with other stars all singing and shining together as one, the whole universe appears as an infinite storm of beauty.
—John Muir
Come to the woods, for here is rest. There is no repose like that of the green deep woods. —John Muir
It is a dark and cold world we sit in if we will not open the inward eyes of the spirit to the inward flames of nature. —Gustav Fechner
The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness. —John Muir
Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul. —John Muir
I never saw a discontented tree. They grip the ground as though they liked it, and though fast rooted they travel about as far as we do. —John Muir
Death is not only a time of mourning. It is a time of truth. —Emmanuel’s Book
Tug on anything at all and you'll find it connected to everything else in the universe.
—John Muir
When we finished telling stories, I read the prose poem I had written a few hours earlier.
Farewell
This is what I do, my old sweetheart.
I use words to find meaning.
You said there was a reason for everything.
I see no reason or sense in your death.
Yet that is what has happened.
We looked into each other’s eyes many times
And knew the end was near,
Knew this was not what either of us wanted
Or planned.
I wanted to be with you all the time
But some of those times were difficult
Watching you birth your death
It was messy, painful, sad
We all felt the labor pain
Rumbling through valley, hills, river.
I asked what sign you would give me
After you were gone. To prove to me
That you were right, after all.
Even in the end. Even about the end.
"Something with a bird," you said.
"Not quite sure. You’ll know."
Days after you told me this
A hummingbird flew right up to me
Wings whirring, tiny eyes gazing at me.
But you were still alive.
Had your spirit already flown the coop?
One night when you still had your strength
You called and left a message on our phone
I was on the coast, you in Home Valley
Where you were witnessing a summer storm.
Lightning, thunder, and clouds were creating
A masterpiece just for you.
You sounded so excited as you described to me
The beauty all around you. I wept as I listened
To your message. Your message of beauty and joy.
I pressed save. I wanted to have a record of your
Voice, your beauty and joy forever.
But someone erased the message.
And now you are gone.
A few days after you died
I went out to your campsite.
I stood out in the stream on a rock
And said, “Linda where are you?”
I looked around at the beauty
At the stones, the creek, the green.
The blue sky, and I couldn’t find you.
“You aren’t here,” I whispered.
Then I looked down and
Saw a tiny white feather floating on
the water in a small pool encircled
By stones. I watched the feather for a long while.
I remembered once when I asked where you’d
Be after you died and you said,
“I will be in the breeze coming
Across the field. I will be in the
Songs of the birds. I will be the
Sun on your shoulders.”
Although you didn’t say so, I know
When I see a wildflower and wonder
its name, you will tell it to me.
When I linger along the path, it
Will be because your hand is on my
Shoulder reminding me to pause.
One day I will smell a Doug Fir
And know you brought that scent to me.
And when I reach my arms around a tree
I know I will be embracing you too.
It is not enough today.
But someday it will be.
Farewell my old sweetheart.
Her brother Daniel read the Rilke poem (below) to end the memorial, and then we ate together and continued to tell stories and jokes.
You mustn't be frightened
If a sadness
Rises in front of you,
Larger than any you have ever seen;
If an anxiety, like light and cloud shadows,
Moves over your hands and everything you do.
You must realize that something is happening to you,
That life has not forgotten you,
That it holds you in its hand
And will not let you fall.
—Rainer Maria Rilke
And that's the way it was. Lots of hugs and love all around.
That's all for now.
Blessings on your days, all.
Gotta get used to it.
Our day started at 6:30 a.m. and did not let up until about 6:45 p.m. I won't bore you with the details of setting up the place and all that entailed. We were ready by the time it was ready to begin.
The memorial went well. I think I did my job. I'm a good public speaker. When I do book readings, I usually do well. At those times I am establishing a relationship between the audience and myself that is essentially about me. This is not my first memorial. I have facilitated one other. For a memorial, it's not about me and my relationship with the audience. I need to put them at ease enough for them to trust me to carry them along on this journey we take together. But it's not about me being charming or a star or anything. I am the facilitator: the conduit for their memories. It's a completely different way of speaking, and I have to be aware of that. (We've been a part of two other memorials in the last six months. Three dead friends in six months. I hope that trend ends here today.)
I began the memorial with a kind of eulogy—or liturgy, maybe. Her brother in law called it that. I thanked the family and the people who helped Linda and Serena during her illness. I talked about her life and her importance to the community. I could have gone on all day, but I just skimmed the surface of her life. I called my talk "Sauntering with Linda."
I said, "Before she got sick again, Linda and I would walk in the woods several times a week. These weren’t really hikes. If you’ve ever walked in the woods with Linda, you know what I mean. She noticed everything. We sauntered rather than hiked. Back in the day, in Europe, pilgrims used to walk to the Holy Land. When people asked where they were going, they’d say, “a la sainte terre.” To the holy land. So they became known as sainte-terre-ers or saunterers. That’s what it was like walking with Linda. We were always sauntering to the holy land and on the holy land—because she believed the woods, nature, this place is holy land. Walking with her, sauntering with her, was always an amazing and wonderful experience."
Then we told jokes. The audience was skeptical of this at first, but soon we were laughing. People got up and told jokes for about half 'n hour. It was great fun. Serena laughed. I sat where I could keep eye contact with her, so I would know how she was doing. Then she did her powerpoint photo essay of herself and Linda. After that, we told Linda stories. This went on for some time. I didn't hurry it. We allowed for moments of silence.
On the program for the memorial, we put quotes I'd found underlined in her books and quotes by John Muir, whose life and writing she admired:
When we contemplate the whole globe as one great dewdrop, striped and dotted with continents and islands, flying through space with other stars all singing and shining together as one, the whole universe appears as an infinite storm of beauty.
—John Muir
Come to the woods, for here is rest. There is no repose like that of the green deep woods. —John Muir
It is a dark and cold world we sit in if we will not open the inward eyes of the spirit to the inward flames of nature. —Gustav Fechner
The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness. —John Muir
Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul. —John Muir
I never saw a discontented tree. They grip the ground as though they liked it, and though fast rooted they travel about as far as we do. —John Muir
Death is not only a time of mourning. It is a time of truth. —Emmanuel’s Book
Tug on anything at all and you'll find it connected to everything else in the universe.
—John Muir
When we finished telling stories, I read the prose poem I had written a few hours earlier.
Farewell
This is what I do, my old sweetheart.
I use words to find meaning.
You said there was a reason for everything.
I see no reason or sense in your death.
Yet that is what has happened.
We looked into each other’s eyes many times
And knew the end was near,
Knew this was not what either of us wanted
Or planned.
I wanted to be with you all the time
But some of those times were difficult
Watching you birth your death
It was messy, painful, sad
We all felt the labor pain
Rumbling through valley, hills, river.
I asked what sign you would give me
After you were gone. To prove to me
That you were right, after all.
Even in the end. Even about the end.
"Something with a bird," you said.
"Not quite sure. You’ll know."
Days after you told me this
A hummingbird flew right up to me
Wings whirring, tiny eyes gazing at me.
But you were still alive.
Had your spirit already flown the coop?
One night when you still had your strength
You called and left a message on our phone
I was on the coast, you in Home Valley
Where you were witnessing a summer storm.
Lightning, thunder, and clouds were creating
A masterpiece just for you.
You sounded so excited as you described to me
The beauty all around you. I wept as I listened
To your message. Your message of beauty and joy.
I pressed save. I wanted to have a record of your
Voice, your beauty and joy forever.
But someone erased the message.
And now you are gone.
A few days after you died
I went out to your campsite.
I stood out in the stream on a rock
And said, “Linda where are you?”
I looked around at the beauty
At the stones, the creek, the green.
The blue sky, and I couldn’t find you.
“You aren’t here,” I whispered.
Then I looked down and
Saw a tiny white feather floating on
the water in a small pool encircled
By stones. I watched the feather for a long while.
I remembered once when I asked where you’d
Be after you died and you said,
“I will be in the breeze coming
Across the field. I will be in the
Songs of the birds. I will be the
Sun on your shoulders.”
Although you didn’t say so, I know
When I see a wildflower and wonder
its name, you will tell it to me.
When I linger along the path, it
Will be because your hand is on my
Shoulder reminding me to pause.
One day I will smell a Doug Fir
And know you brought that scent to me.
And when I reach my arms around a tree
I know I will be embracing you too.
It is not enough today.
But someday it will be.
Farewell my old sweetheart.
Her brother Daniel read the Rilke poem (below) to end the memorial, and then we ate together and continued to tell stories and jokes.
You mustn't be frightened
If a sadness
Rises in front of you,
Larger than any you have ever seen;
If an anxiety, like light and cloud shadows,
Moves over your hands and everything you do.
You must realize that something is happening to you,
That life has not forgotten you,
That it holds you in its hand
And will not let you fall.
—Rainer Maria Rilke
And that's the way it was. Lots of hugs and love all around.
That's all for now.
Blessings on your days, all.
Labels: Linda
2 comments
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Save More Than a Penny
They're at it again: trying to drill in the Arctic Refuge.
You can help out by going here. 2 comments
You can help out by going here. 2 comments
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Turning Point
We switched back on our TV service so I could watch When the Levees Broke. That's what I'm doing as I’m writing this.
I can't tell you all the little annoying, irritating, and stressful things that I've encountered in the last two and a half days. Well, maybe I can tell you a thing or two. I went to rent the place for the memorial. I fill out paperwork and I pay the money. But if you want to use the kitchen, you need to go someplace else and pay this amount. But when I get to the other place, they say I have to go back over there. Huh? Later back at home I learn that if I want to use a microphone at the place I rented for the service, I need to go down and pay more money. None of it's big money. It's not that. It's just all these things you have to do, all these places you have to go. And every little annoyance is magnified because I'm tired and stressed.
Then we got the local paper. The obit info was correct (although not particularly eloquent) but the editor had written a short piece on Linda. At the end of the piece, she put the wrong day for the memorial. Saturday instead of Sunday. So I went around town with a yellow highlighter to emphasize "Sunday." And I called a bunch of people and asked them to spread the word. Then a friend told me she had a place for Linda's sister and brother to stay when they came so I called her sister with the great news. Three minutes later my friend called and said, well, let me double-check. Argh. Someone called and said I'm sure you said Saturday, Kim. I say, it was always, always, always planned for Sunday. It's hard for me to imagine I ever said Saturday, but I'm tired and my brain is fried so maybe I did. But it's SUNDAY.
I spent most of the day on the phone. I HATE talking on the phone. And I was giving people bad news. I called Linda’s doctor, acupuncturist, massage therapist, and a few other people who hadn't been notified. Many people said they weren't coming to the memorial. I started worrying about there being a small turnout because so many people are on vacation. Ah well. Can't do anything about that.
All of this sounds trivial, I know. It is.
I went to the library this afternoon. As I was talking to one person about Linda, another woman who worked at the library said, "Linda is dead?" She looked as if she'd been punched. I said, "You didn't know? But Mario called and asked that everyone be told." The first person said, "We got an e-mail." Oh shit. The woman who was so upset had just recently been diagnosed with breast cancer. I tried to reassure her, explaining that Linda had had a different stage of cancer than she had. Etc. Sending out an e-mail seemed so insensitive—although I’m sure the person who sent it didn’t mean it to be insensitive. As I was reassuring the second woman, the first woman said, “What a good friend you’ve been to Linda.” She went on to talk about a movie she saw where someone was dying of cancer and that dying person was so insensitive and didn't seem to care about anyone else. I couldn't understand why she was telling me this. When I asked her, she said, "Linda should have been in a hospital or care center." "No," I said, "she wanted to die at home. That was her choice. And tell me, who was going to pay for it?"
Geez Louise.
I went home and said to Mario, "I'm not mad at you, but I am going to have to vent." So I did.
Ah well. I'm not sure I'm learning anything new about Katrina in this docu. But then I've read a great deal about it already. It is my opinion that historically Katrina will mark a turning point for the United States. The country's downhill slide picked up steam then, I do believe. I remember watching the disaster unfold on TV and on the internet and feeling so helpless.
More helpless even than when I was watching Linda suffer and die. Maybe. I watched Katrina and knew truly really completely how incompetent and venal our government is. I watched Linda die and had no great revelation or epiphany. It was just hard. Serena and I both felt bad that we weren't with her when she died. When I told Barbara this, she said a nurse once told her that her terminal patients often died when the loved ones had gone home for a break or to get some rest. As if then they were able to let go. That was reassuring.
I was going to write the memorial service tonight, but I’ve changed my mind. I'm going to lay on the couch and veg. I just realized that what’s missing from this process is that we haven’t been gathering to mourn Linda's death. Because Serena doesn't want people at the house, none of us have a place to go—a place to go where Linda lived and died. People can't bring food and comfort to a place. There’s no place to tell stories. It is a loss to us. We have lost our sense of community because we have no place to gather. That’s it. That’s why I feel so out of...place.
I was also thinking today that I know a lot of people who aren't very good with other people. How could I say that better? I seem to have lost some skill with words. I could say I know a lot of people with poor social skills. Almost everyone I know, actually. Is this what happens when community breaks down? People lose the ability to empathize? To get along? Is this a Pacific Northwest thing? An American thing? What?
Or is it just the people I know?
Who knows.
I'm not meaning to whine. I am so fortunate. I've got it easy, I know that.
Wishing you great joy! 8 comments
Linda Ann Ford 5 comments
I can't tell you all the little annoying, irritating, and stressful things that I've encountered in the last two and a half days. Well, maybe I can tell you a thing or two. I went to rent the place for the memorial. I fill out paperwork and I pay the money. But if you want to use the kitchen, you need to go someplace else and pay this amount. But when I get to the other place, they say I have to go back over there. Huh? Later back at home I learn that if I want to use a microphone at the place I rented for the service, I need to go down and pay more money. None of it's big money. It's not that. It's just all these things you have to do, all these places you have to go. And every little annoyance is magnified because I'm tired and stressed.
Then we got the local paper. The obit info was correct (although not particularly eloquent) but the editor had written a short piece on Linda. At the end of the piece, she put the wrong day for the memorial. Saturday instead of Sunday. So I went around town with a yellow highlighter to emphasize "Sunday." And I called a bunch of people and asked them to spread the word. Then a friend told me she had a place for Linda's sister and brother to stay when they came so I called her sister with the great news. Three minutes later my friend called and said, well, let me double-check. Argh. Someone called and said I'm sure you said Saturday, Kim. I say, it was always, always, always planned for Sunday. It's hard for me to imagine I ever said Saturday, but I'm tired and my brain is fried so maybe I did. But it's SUNDAY.
I spent most of the day on the phone. I HATE talking on the phone. And I was giving people bad news. I called Linda’s doctor, acupuncturist, massage therapist, and a few other people who hadn't been notified. Many people said they weren't coming to the memorial. I started worrying about there being a small turnout because so many people are on vacation. Ah well. Can't do anything about that.
All of this sounds trivial, I know. It is.
I went to the library this afternoon. As I was talking to one person about Linda, another woman who worked at the library said, "Linda is dead?" She looked as if she'd been punched. I said, "You didn't know? But Mario called and asked that everyone be told." The first person said, "We got an e-mail." Oh shit. The woman who was so upset had just recently been diagnosed with breast cancer. I tried to reassure her, explaining that Linda had had a different stage of cancer than she had. Etc. Sending out an e-mail seemed so insensitive—although I’m sure the person who sent it didn’t mean it to be insensitive. As I was reassuring the second woman, the first woman said, “What a good friend you’ve been to Linda.” She went on to talk about a movie she saw where someone was dying of cancer and that dying person was so insensitive and didn't seem to care about anyone else. I couldn't understand why she was telling me this. When I asked her, she said, "Linda should have been in a hospital or care center." "No," I said, "she wanted to die at home. That was her choice. And tell me, who was going to pay for it?"
Geez Louise.
I went home and said to Mario, "I'm not mad at you, but I am going to have to vent." So I did.
Ah well. I'm not sure I'm learning anything new about Katrina in this docu. But then I've read a great deal about it already. It is my opinion that historically Katrina will mark a turning point for the United States. The country's downhill slide picked up steam then, I do believe. I remember watching the disaster unfold on TV and on the internet and feeling so helpless.
More helpless even than when I was watching Linda suffer and die. Maybe. I watched Katrina and knew truly really completely how incompetent and venal our government is. I watched Linda die and had no great revelation or epiphany. It was just hard. Serena and I both felt bad that we weren't with her when she died. When I told Barbara this, she said a nurse once told her that her terminal patients often died when the loved ones had gone home for a break or to get some rest. As if then they were able to let go. That was reassuring.
I was going to write the memorial service tonight, but I’ve changed my mind. I'm going to lay on the couch and veg. I just realized that what’s missing from this process is that we haven’t been gathering to mourn Linda's death. Because Serena doesn't want people at the house, none of us have a place to go—a place to go where Linda lived and died. People can't bring food and comfort to a place. There’s no place to tell stories. It is a loss to us. We have lost our sense of community because we have no place to gather. That’s it. That’s why I feel so out of...place.
I was also thinking today that I know a lot of people who aren't very good with other people. How could I say that better? I seem to have lost some skill with words. I could say I know a lot of people with poor social skills. Almost everyone I know, actually. Is this what happens when community breaks down? People lose the ability to empathize? To get along? Is this a Pacific Northwest thing? An American thing? What?
Or is it just the people I know?
Who knows.
I'm not meaning to whine. I am so fortunate. I've got it easy, I know that.
Wishing you great joy! 8 comments
Monday, August 21, 2006
My Old Sweetheart
Linda Ann Ford 5 comments
Sunday, August 20, 2006
After
I'm sitting here humming that old Hank Williams "I'm so lonesome I could cry" while I'm typing this. Mario is on the couch reading. I just got back from Linda's house. It was so different driving up her road this time. I've done it hundreds of times. I've gone to Linda's house many times when she and Serena were gone, too, to walk the dogs or wait for Linda or for a myriad of other reasons. I parked in the shade, as always, and waited for the dogs to come running up. But they didn't. They lay by the front door, tails barely wagging. The front door was closed. I hesitated. Then I turned the knob and went inside. A vase of flowers was on the table. Nancy had brought those. The light was on. Linda always left a light on. The radio wasn't playing. When Linda was well, NPR was on all the time. All day. But now it was silent. I stood still. For a moment.
Then I went into the living room. Linda's bed was in the room, diagonally. And it was empty. No Linda. I went over to the bookshelf and got some books that I needed to help me write Linda's memorial. Then I got the books she wanted me to have. Opal books. I took them out to the car. Then I went into the kitchen and took out the big pot of spaghetti we had brought for Serena this morning. I spooned the reminder of it into a smaller container so she would have room in her refrigerator. I felt strange being in the house. For the first time. I felt I was an intruder. It was no longer Linda's house.
As I finished transferring the spaghetti, the dogs started barking. Serena drove up. She came in carrying groceries, telling me excitedly what she'd bought. A friend followed her. I said, "If I leave all this spaghetti for you will you eat it?" "Oh yeah, I'll eat it." I looked up and another person had come into the kitchen. I said hello and introduced myself. The house was suddenly full of young people. Lots of subdued energy. I was an intruder. I told Serena I had borrowed the books for the memorial. "Oh, I'll get some apples," I said. She encouraged me to get all I could carry. I grabbed a bag from the pantry and went out to the old apple tree. It was so heavy with apples that at least one branch had snapped in two. I started plucking off apples before I remembered to ask permission. And then I did ask. Out in the field I heard a wild turkey calling, again and again. I tried to see it but couldn't.
When the bag was half full, I put it in the car along with the empty pot. Then I went back inside. Serena was pulling the sheets and blankets off the bed. One girl watched from the entrance to the room; another girl helped. "You okay to do this?" I asked Serena. She nodded. "It was so strange driving up here," I said. She turned to me and I could see she was crying. Yes. Good. I went and stood next to her and put my arm around her tiny waist and pulled her close to me. I don't even remember what I said or what she said. We just held each other tightly. Then I slapped her on her butt and told her I'd see her in the morning. "I love you," I said. "I love you too," she said.
Just about mended my broken heart.
Then I got in the car and drove home.
This morning when I finally awakened, before all this, I lay in bed. I didn't want to get up. Memories of what had been happening to Linda all week flashed in my head. A couple of our friends had warned that this last awful stage could go on for a long time. I tried to figure out how I was going to keep doing this. How was Serena going to keep doing it? Soon her only memories of her mother would be of this last agony. I felt sick to my stomach, but I knew I just had to keep doing it. Just had to keep walking through it. What else could you do? I whispered into my pillow, "Whoever is in charge, whoever is watching over her, could you please let her go?"
A few minutes later, the phone rang. Linda's weekend caregiver called to say Linda had died. I said, "Thank god." (Just an expression. I wasn't really thanking any god.) The caregiver had called Serena, and she was on her way home. I said I would eat something and then come over. I went to tell Mario, who was taking a shower. My body began shaking. And then it stopped. Mario made breakfast. I ate about half of it.
We drove to the farm. Beautiful day. Cool morning. The dogs were lethargic. I went into the living room and gently stroked Linda's forehead. "I hope you're all right now, darlin'." But she wasn't there. The room was so empty it was startling. Stark. Something. Or maybe it was me. We waited for Serena. She didn't come. The police and the coroner and the people who were going to cremate her body needed to be called. Our agreement had been that Serena would call 911 when she got home. I called her, but she didn't answer. I decided I had to go ahead and do what had to be done. "What is your emergency?" "There is no emergency," I said, "but someone has died and I was told to call 911. Please don't put it over the scanner. She wasn't on hospice so a medical examiner has to come and look at the body." She asked me my name and verified the address and Linda's name. She said the officer would be out soon.
The caregiver had to leave for a funeral. “The coroner will need to know when Linda died,” I told her. “Between 3:30 and 5:30,” she said. 5:30? Why hadn’t she called us until 8:30? Didn’t see why she should wake everyone up. I was dumbfounded. And then I realized Linda had been alone when she died. Not alone. The dogs and the cat had been with her.
Mario sat outside with the dogs. I stood near him, trying to figure out what to do next. I just wanted to do something. So much to do. So many people to call. I wanted to get it going. I wondered where Serena was. I suspected now that her mother was actually dead that if was harder for her than she thought it would be. I tried to imagine what it was like for her. She was essentially an orphan.
A blue lizard popped up on a fence post. We walked over to it. It let us get so close. As I watched it, I wondered where Linda was. She wasn't in that room in her body. So where was she? I stared at the lizard. Do you know where she is?
Serena came home. The deputy came right after her. He introduced himself and then I took him to where Linda’s body was. He had to take photos. Then he looked at all her medications. I told him she wasn't on anything, although she had had one tranquilizer. I opened the bottle to show him. There had been 20 and now one was gone. He assured me this was all routine. He was very kind. While we waited for the medical examiner, I called the company that will cremate Linda's body.
I asked Serena if she still wanted me to notify family and friends and were the instructions the same: no visitors, no phone calls for a few days? She said yes, so I began calling. First was family. I couldn't get a hold of her brother, so I called her sister. Felt strange asking family not to call for a few days. Who am I to relay such a message? Then I began calling friends. After a while Mario offered to make the phone calls. He knew people wouldn't ask him as many questions. Not that there was anything wrong with asking question—it's just that we had lots of calls to make and we had no information about a memorial yet. Had to wait until everything opened in the morning.
Mario, Serena, and I sat side by side in the shade, close to each other, making calls, looking around at the land. Serena said, "I really need to get that thistle mowed." We watched thistle seeds blowing in the wind. "Too late," I said. "Yep," she said. "There they go." She ate the spaghetti we brought her while she talked on the phone.
The medical examiner (district attorney's assistant) came. He offered his condolences and then left after he went into the house. Not long after that, the cremation people came. I went into the house and filled out a bit of paperwork with them. Serena went for a drive while they took her mother’s body away. They brought her out of the house on a gurney and then put her in a long blue thing—like a huge duffel bag. I placed my hand on the duffel bad and said something to Linda. I can't remember what. I didn't feel like she was there, not sure why I was still talking to her body.
Eventually went home and ate, talked with Serena’s godparents.
Later I drove back to the house by myself, emptied the spaghetti out, plucked apples from the tree of life...
Earlier in the week when Linda was still semi-coherent, I told her she was the best friend I'd ever had and I loved her very much. We cried together. She told me she loved me too. Today I have tried to remember some of the wonderful times Linda and I had together. I thought about her last week too. I kept wondering if I had been with her enough. I'd been at the house, but I didn't stay long in the room with her. I'd come in and stroke her forehead, talk to her about her favorite place, but I didn't stay and read to her like I did when she was conscious. I had thought she was sleeping or on her way out...but what if she'd been aware and alone all that time?
We all did the best we could. Especially Linda.
Don't know how many people I talked with today. So many people. Such amazing kindness.
No more today. Thank you all for your support. I know so many of you have been through similar experiences. I appreciate your compassion and kindness.
See you in the morning. 10 comments
Then I went into the living room. Linda's bed was in the room, diagonally. And it was empty. No Linda. I went over to the bookshelf and got some books that I needed to help me write Linda's memorial. Then I got the books she wanted me to have. Opal books. I took them out to the car. Then I went into the kitchen and took out the big pot of spaghetti we had brought for Serena this morning. I spooned the reminder of it into a smaller container so she would have room in her refrigerator. I felt strange being in the house. For the first time. I felt I was an intruder. It was no longer Linda's house.
As I finished transferring the spaghetti, the dogs started barking. Serena drove up. She came in carrying groceries, telling me excitedly what she'd bought. A friend followed her. I said, "If I leave all this spaghetti for you will you eat it?" "Oh yeah, I'll eat it." I looked up and another person had come into the kitchen. I said hello and introduced myself. The house was suddenly full of young people. Lots of subdued energy. I was an intruder. I told Serena I had borrowed the books for the memorial. "Oh, I'll get some apples," I said. She encouraged me to get all I could carry. I grabbed a bag from the pantry and went out to the old apple tree. It was so heavy with apples that at least one branch had snapped in two. I started plucking off apples before I remembered to ask permission. And then I did ask. Out in the field I heard a wild turkey calling, again and again. I tried to see it but couldn't.
When the bag was half full, I put it in the car along with the empty pot. Then I went back inside. Serena was pulling the sheets and blankets off the bed. One girl watched from the entrance to the room; another girl helped. "You okay to do this?" I asked Serena. She nodded. "It was so strange driving up here," I said. She turned to me and I could see she was crying. Yes. Good. I went and stood next to her and put my arm around her tiny waist and pulled her close to me. I don't even remember what I said or what she said. We just held each other tightly. Then I slapped her on her butt and told her I'd see her in the morning. "I love you," I said. "I love you too," she said.
Just about mended my broken heart.
Then I got in the car and drove home.
This morning when I finally awakened, before all this, I lay in bed. I didn't want to get up. Memories of what had been happening to Linda all week flashed in my head. A couple of our friends had warned that this last awful stage could go on for a long time. I tried to figure out how I was going to keep doing this. How was Serena going to keep doing it? Soon her only memories of her mother would be of this last agony. I felt sick to my stomach, but I knew I just had to keep doing it. Just had to keep walking through it. What else could you do? I whispered into my pillow, "Whoever is in charge, whoever is watching over her, could you please let her go?"
A few minutes later, the phone rang. Linda's weekend caregiver called to say Linda had died. I said, "Thank god." (Just an expression. I wasn't really thanking any god.) The caregiver had called Serena, and she was on her way home. I said I would eat something and then come over. I went to tell Mario, who was taking a shower. My body began shaking. And then it stopped. Mario made breakfast. I ate about half of it.
We drove to the farm. Beautiful day. Cool morning. The dogs were lethargic. I went into the living room and gently stroked Linda's forehead. "I hope you're all right now, darlin'." But she wasn't there. The room was so empty it was startling. Stark. Something. Or maybe it was me. We waited for Serena. She didn't come. The police and the coroner and the people who were going to cremate her body needed to be called. Our agreement had been that Serena would call 911 when she got home. I called her, but she didn't answer. I decided I had to go ahead and do what had to be done. "What is your emergency?" "There is no emergency," I said, "but someone has died and I was told to call 911. Please don't put it over the scanner. She wasn't on hospice so a medical examiner has to come and look at the body." She asked me my name and verified the address and Linda's name. She said the officer would be out soon.
The caregiver had to leave for a funeral. “The coroner will need to know when Linda died,” I told her. “Between 3:30 and 5:30,” she said. 5:30? Why hadn’t she called us until 8:30? Didn’t see why she should wake everyone up. I was dumbfounded. And then I realized Linda had been alone when she died. Not alone. The dogs and the cat had been with her.
Mario sat outside with the dogs. I stood near him, trying to figure out what to do next. I just wanted to do something. So much to do. So many people to call. I wanted to get it going. I wondered where Serena was. I suspected now that her mother was actually dead that if was harder for her than she thought it would be. I tried to imagine what it was like for her. She was essentially an orphan.
A blue lizard popped up on a fence post. We walked over to it. It let us get so close. As I watched it, I wondered where Linda was. She wasn't in that room in her body. So where was she? I stared at the lizard. Do you know where she is?
Serena came home. The deputy came right after her. He introduced himself and then I took him to where Linda’s body was. He had to take photos. Then he looked at all her medications. I told him she wasn't on anything, although she had had one tranquilizer. I opened the bottle to show him. There had been 20 and now one was gone. He assured me this was all routine. He was very kind. While we waited for the medical examiner, I called the company that will cremate Linda's body.
I asked Serena if she still wanted me to notify family and friends and were the instructions the same: no visitors, no phone calls for a few days? She said yes, so I began calling. First was family. I couldn't get a hold of her brother, so I called her sister. Felt strange asking family not to call for a few days. Who am I to relay such a message? Then I began calling friends. After a while Mario offered to make the phone calls. He knew people wouldn't ask him as many questions. Not that there was anything wrong with asking question—it's just that we had lots of calls to make and we had no information about a memorial yet. Had to wait until everything opened in the morning.
Mario, Serena, and I sat side by side in the shade, close to each other, making calls, looking around at the land. Serena said, "I really need to get that thistle mowed." We watched thistle seeds blowing in the wind. "Too late," I said. "Yep," she said. "There they go." She ate the spaghetti we brought her while she talked on the phone.
The medical examiner (district attorney's assistant) came. He offered his condolences and then left after he went into the house. Not long after that, the cremation people came. I went into the house and filled out a bit of paperwork with them. Serena went for a drive while they took her mother’s body away. They brought her out of the house on a gurney and then put her in a long blue thing—like a huge duffel bag. I placed my hand on the duffel bad and said something to Linda. I can't remember what. I didn't feel like she was there, not sure why I was still talking to her body.
Eventually went home and ate, talked with Serena’s godparents.
Later I drove back to the house by myself, emptied the spaghetti out, plucked apples from the tree of life...
Earlier in the week when Linda was still semi-coherent, I told her she was the best friend I'd ever had and I loved her very much. We cried together. She told me she loved me too. Today I have tried to remember some of the wonderful times Linda and I had together. I thought about her last week too. I kept wondering if I had been with her enough. I'd been at the house, but I didn't stay long in the room with her. I'd come in and stroke her forehead, talk to her about her favorite place, but I didn't stay and read to her like I did when she was conscious. I had thought she was sleeping or on her way out...but what if she'd been aware and alone all that time?
We all did the best we could. Especially Linda.
Don't know how many people I talked with today. So many people. Such amazing kindness.
No more today. Thank you all for your support. I know so many of you have been through similar experiences. I appreciate your compassion and kindness.
See you in the morning. 10 comments
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Cocoon
Smoky outside. The fire isn't that big, but smoke travels wide and far. So we're stuck inside on this beautiful but hot day. It's fair week. Serena is working the fair, so we'd like to walk down and see her, but it's not safe to walk in these kinds of conditions. (Especially when you're someone with asthma.)
I spent all morning on the phone. Finally got breakfast around noon. Spent part of last night at Linda's. Her caregiver didn't show up, so we went to the house and brought Serena ice cream and pie, and we kept her company for a while. I stroked Linda's forehead and did a "meditation" with her to her favorite place. It's very difficult to see her like this. (That is about the understatement of my life.) She can't really make her needs known at this stage, so we don't know if she's suffering or not. After Mario and I went home, Serena called about 11:30 because the caregiver still hadn't shown up. I called the sheriff's department to make certain no one had been in an accident. After that I talked to Serena for a long time, urged her to try to sleep, was glad she felt she could call me. My body was still pumping with adrenal from her phone call (because it was so late and I was asleep) so it took me a couple of hours to go back to sleep. Even so, I was glad to be there for her. And it helps me too. I can't be in mourning—I can't be depressed—when I've got this girl in my life who needs to step out of what's happening in her life for a few minutes. I've made spaghetti for her dinner tonight. The pie we took her last night was made from apples picked from her mother's apple tree.
I don't want to talk about it any more. Just for a minute. I want to remember my beautiful friend out in the woods, knowing everything, taking her time as she walked from plant to plant, driving me crazy because I wanted a workout not a botany lesson. She was forever teaching me to stop and smell the roses (despite my lack of smell) even when I resisted.
Resistance is futile.
I miss her so much.
After my noon time breakfast, I firmed up all the dates and places for my trip to the Southwest. I'm quite nervous about it. I hope I can physically do it. It'll be a challenge. I hope Barbara and I are friends at the end of it. I've stopped saying this to her, however, since it makes her very nervous. "Why wouldn't we be?" she wonders. "I've never had trouble traveling with anyone." Hmmmm. Whenever I've travelled with anyone there's always a time when we get on each other's nerves and we get a little stressed out. Except Mario, of course. We're perfect together. (You can all laugh now. Of course Mario and I can get irritated with each other too—although it is rare.)
I have little idea about what's going on in the world. I'm pretty much in Linda's world. Although it isn't really her world any more. It's a twilight kind of world, a twilight kind of life. I haven't read what anyone else has been writing or written any letters. I apologize to anyone I haven't written. I would like to be poetic and beautiful right now, but words fail me. Or I fail them. This kind of dying is harrowing. It doesn't seem right. Or maybe it's just us, resisting it, wanting it to be different. Why can't she just hold out her hand and cross over—which is how she views dying? Last night I whispered to her, "You can take off that shoe now if you like." She has told me many times that she viewed death as taking off a too-tight shoe.
One of our friends accused me of allowing Linda to suffer (because Linda said very clearly she did not want morphine) because we are following Linda's wishes. She accused me of other things too. It was very sad. I was so angry and hurt because I was so tired; otherwise I would have taken her accusations in stride. She doesn't want Linda to die, so she's fighting it. Someone told me that next time someone questions what I'm doing that I should take off my shoes and hand them to her. I like that very much. Perfect. Walk in my shoes and then see how your harangue goes. I keep saying, "It's not about you; it's not about me. It's about Linda and Serena and doing whatever we can for them." That's the beginning and the end for me. (And in-between it's about me and everyone else getting enough rest.)
Okay. I hope your lives are fun and exciting or restful and joyful or whatever you need and want. I wish you all peace and great good health.
Much love, love, love.
I spent all morning on the phone. Finally got breakfast around noon. Spent part of last night at Linda's. Her caregiver didn't show up, so we went to the house and brought Serena ice cream and pie, and we kept her company for a while. I stroked Linda's forehead and did a "meditation" with her to her favorite place. It's very difficult to see her like this. (That is about the understatement of my life.) She can't really make her needs known at this stage, so we don't know if she's suffering or not. After Mario and I went home, Serena called about 11:30 because the caregiver still hadn't shown up. I called the sheriff's department to make certain no one had been in an accident. After that I talked to Serena for a long time, urged her to try to sleep, was glad she felt she could call me. My body was still pumping with adrenal from her phone call (because it was so late and I was asleep) so it took me a couple of hours to go back to sleep. Even so, I was glad to be there for her. And it helps me too. I can't be in mourning—I can't be depressed—when I've got this girl in my life who needs to step out of what's happening in her life for a few minutes. I've made spaghetti for her dinner tonight. The pie we took her last night was made from apples picked from her mother's apple tree.
I don't want to talk about it any more. Just for a minute. I want to remember my beautiful friend out in the woods, knowing everything, taking her time as she walked from plant to plant, driving me crazy because I wanted a workout not a botany lesson. She was forever teaching me to stop and smell the roses (despite my lack of smell) even when I resisted.
Resistance is futile.
I miss her so much.
After my noon time breakfast, I firmed up all the dates and places for my trip to the Southwest. I'm quite nervous about it. I hope I can physically do it. It'll be a challenge. I hope Barbara and I are friends at the end of it. I've stopped saying this to her, however, since it makes her very nervous. "Why wouldn't we be?" she wonders. "I've never had trouble traveling with anyone." Hmmmm. Whenever I've travelled with anyone there's always a time when we get on each other's nerves and we get a little stressed out. Except Mario, of course. We're perfect together. (You can all laugh now. Of course Mario and I can get irritated with each other too—although it is rare.)
I have little idea about what's going on in the world. I'm pretty much in Linda's world. Although it isn't really her world any more. It's a twilight kind of world, a twilight kind of life. I haven't read what anyone else has been writing or written any letters. I apologize to anyone I haven't written. I would like to be poetic and beautiful right now, but words fail me. Or I fail them. This kind of dying is harrowing. It doesn't seem right. Or maybe it's just us, resisting it, wanting it to be different. Why can't she just hold out her hand and cross over—which is how she views dying? Last night I whispered to her, "You can take off that shoe now if you like." She has told me many times that she viewed death as taking off a too-tight shoe.
One of our friends accused me of allowing Linda to suffer (because Linda said very clearly she did not want morphine) because we are following Linda's wishes. She accused me of other things too. It was very sad. I was so angry and hurt because I was so tired; otherwise I would have taken her accusations in stride. She doesn't want Linda to die, so she's fighting it. Someone told me that next time someone questions what I'm doing that I should take off my shoes and hand them to her. I like that very much. Perfect. Walk in my shoes and then see how your harangue goes. I keep saying, "It's not about you; it's not about me. It's about Linda and Serena and doing whatever we can for them." That's the beginning and the end for me. (And in-between it's about me and everyone else getting enough rest.)
Okay. I hope your lives are fun and exciting or restful and joyful or whatever you need and want. I wish you all peace and great good health.
Much love, love, love.
Labels: Linda
3 comments
Thursday, August 17, 2006
How's Youse?
Late at night. Can't sleep again. I remember once when I was complaining about not sleeping someone said, "oh, just go with it; no big deal." This is fine advice if you don't have a job and/or you don't have any responsibilities to speak of. Not so good if you do. Don't you agree?
I went to the workshop in Portland. It was hot and I was having dragon-sized hot flashes and sweats. Plus lots of things were going on with Linda, so it was difficult to concentrate. On the second night in Portland—after I couldn't sleep again—I got up, wrote Mario a note, left the hotel, and drove home. It was so great to get into the car and just go. Middle of the night. Cruising down the Gorge, half moon out my left window. I could breathe again. The chatter in my head didn't stop, but at least I was moving. I thought about going to Linda's and seeing if she and Serena were all right. I hadn't slept in so long that the scenario seemed to make sense.
Once I got home I stepped out of the car and breathed deeply. Felt so much better. Went inside the house, lay down on the couch, pulled the quilt my dad had made me up over me, and fell to sleep almost immediately. I woke up an hour later, at 3:00 a.m. That amount of sleep was enough to restore me to sanity. I realized I had left my husband sleeping in a hotel in Portland: and he didn't know it. I got into the car and drove back to Portand. Which is beautiful at 4:00 a.m. Fortunately I found a parking spot near the hotel. I went back into the hotel and into our room. Got into bed. Mario said sleepily, "Did you go down to the lobby?" "No," I said, "I drove home. I've been gone for three hours." He had no idea.
He went right back to sleep. I was wide awake.
I didn't go back to the conference. We went home a few hours later.
The rest of what's been going on I won't bore you with. (What a sentence, eh.) It has been an extremely intense and stressful week. So many people have an opinion about how Linda should die. It's excruciating. Why can't people honor and respect the wishes of others? So many people are so certain they know what is right for other people. It amazes me. I'm rarely certain what is right for me let alone what's right for someone else. Is it relaxing to always "know" you're right, or really stressful?
Does this make sense? Too vague. My mind is a bit fried. Now I'll try to sleep again.
I wish my friend peace.
Sweet dreams all. 0 comments
I went to the workshop in Portland. It was hot and I was having dragon-sized hot flashes and sweats. Plus lots of things were going on with Linda, so it was difficult to concentrate. On the second night in Portland—after I couldn't sleep again—I got up, wrote Mario a note, left the hotel, and drove home. It was so great to get into the car and just go. Middle of the night. Cruising down the Gorge, half moon out my left window. I could breathe again. The chatter in my head didn't stop, but at least I was moving. I thought about going to Linda's and seeing if she and Serena were all right. I hadn't slept in so long that the scenario seemed to make sense.
Once I got home I stepped out of the car and breathed deeply. Felt so much better. Went inside the house, lay down on the couch, pulled the quilt my dad had made me up over me, and fell to sleep almost immediately. I woke up an hour later, at 3:00 a.m. That amount of sleep was enough to restore me to sanity. I realized I had left my husband sleeping in a hotel in Portland: and he didn't know it. I got into the car and drove back to Portand. Which is beautiful at 4:00 a.m. Fortunately I found a parking spot near the hotel. I went back into the hotel and into our room. Got into bed. Mario said sleepily, "Did you go down to the lobby?" "No," I said, "I drove home. I've been gone for three hours." He had no idea.
He went right back to sleep. I was wide awake.
I didn't go back to the conference. We went home a few hours later.
The rest of what's been going on I won't bore you with. (What a sentence, eh.) It has been an extremely intense and stressful week. So many people have an opinion about how Linda should die. It's excruciating. Why can't people honor and respect the wishes of others? So many people are so certain they know what is right for other people. It amazes me. I'm rarely certain what is right for me let alone what's right for someone else. Is it relaxing to always "know" you're right, or really stressful?
Does this make sense? Too vague. My mind is a bit fried. Now I'll try to sleep again.
I wish my friend peace.
Sweet dreams all. 0 comments
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Flying Shards of a Better Tomorrow
Wow. This is amazing. Ironic, hysterically funny, and awful.
1 comments
Applause! Applause!
I'm back from my reading. I had such a good time. It was a small group, about fifteen. I usually get between 20-35. I won’t do one of these on Saturday in the summer again! Except it was just a marvelous group. Some of my favorite people were there: Rhoda, Ira, Sylvia, Pat, Becky, Mary, Barbara. (I'm so glad you were there, Becky!) I missed Linda being there, but it was a grand time. I talked about Broken Moon and Church of the Old Mermaids. I read a scene from Broken Moon when Nadira tells the Abu Hasan Breaks Wind story (from 1001 Nights) to calm the frightened boys. Lots of laughs. I love that story and the way Nadira tells it. I started getting all choked up when I read Church of the Old Mermaids. It was the same scene (in the comments) that I left for Joanna, so I've read it a lot lately. Still, something about it touched me. Then it was on to Mercy, Unbound. We talked a lot about the book. We ended up talking about anorexia bulimia but it's really not about that, so I should have emphasized other aspects of it. It's about Mercy's attempt to make sense of the world and her role in it, something most of us can relate to. It's such a beautiful read. (Yes, I know I'm talking about my own creations, but they're beyond me now.) Everyone seemed to have a good time. We sold $155 of books. (Another $30 and we could pay for the copies of Mercy, Unbound we bought for the program!) Not bad for such a small group. I asked Mario to take pics so I could post them, but I think he got bored pretty quickly (bored of taking shots, not of the program), so I just have this one pic.
I'm so excited by all three of these books, by the way. I feel as though I've hit my stride with them. Or whatever that expression is. I hope they make a positive difference. In the acknowledgments for Broken Moon, I thanked my sister Michelle for telling me about the "camel kids." Then I wrote, "We never know what story might save a life, change a life, or change the world, so we need to keep on telling them." I believe that. That's why I keep telling you my stories.
Have a good weekend. Tomorrow I’m leaving for a Finding the Healing Forces in Plants workshop in Portland for the next three days. Not sure if I’ll have computer access or not, so you all have fun out there without me.
May You Spin in Beauty!
By the way, those are Janet Essley's paintings behind me. She has a great show at the library. I meant to write about it after her reception at the library, but things happened and I didn't. She's a wonderful artist. Her work is always thoughtful and provocative. Her show at the library is "Portraits in Motor Oil." (Although the colorful ones in this photo are not the ones in motor oil.) 5 comments
I'm so excited by all three of these books, by the way. I feel as though I've hit my stride with them. Or whatever that expression is. I hope they make a positive difference. In the acknowledgments for Broken Moon, I thanked my sister Michelle for telling me about the "camel kids." Then I wrote, "We never know what story might save a life, change a life, or change the world, so we need to keep on telling them." I believe that. That's why I keep telling you my stories.
Have a good weekend. Tomorrow I’m leaving for a Finding the Healing Forces in Plants workshop in Portland for the next three days. Not sure if I’ll have computer access or not, so you all have fun out there without me.
May You Spin in Beauty!
By the way, those are Janet Essley's paintings behind me. She has a great show at the library. I meant to write about it after her reception at the library, but things happened and I didn't. She's a wonderful artist. Her work is always thoughtful and provocative. Her show at the library is "Portraits in Motor Oil." (Although the colorful ones in this photo are not the ones in motor oil.) 5 comments
Awash
I feel like an Old Mermaid this morning right after they washed up onto shore. Right after the Old Sea dried up and they were left without their watery home. Stranded in the desert, drops of the Old Sea beading off of them like sweat. Their bodies changing, shapeshifting before their very eyes. Before the very eyes of the desert and the creatures come to gather at the old shoreline, some of them adrift, too, stranded in this New World. The Old Mermaids didn't huddle together in fear, however. They drifted up out of the wash, they moved up out of the wash, they strode up out of the wash as soon as they were able. They listened to the whispers of the desert. To the Earth that stroked their soles, saying, "It'll be, it'll be, it'll be." Then they built their house, their home, their lives.
One of the Old Mermaids had problems sleeping, however. She had a little more trouble with the shifting of their lives than some of the others; although truth be told, they all had some difficulties. Sister Lyra Musica Mermaid was a bit afraid of the desert creatures for a while. Sister Laughs A Lot had nightmares. Grand Mother Yemaya Mermaid started snoring. And Sister Diana Mermaid couldn’t sleep.
Sister Diana Mermaid who loved the Old Wild Things missed the creatures of the Old Sea. And she missed her Old Self. She was a tough Old Mermaid. Fit in mind and body. Yet while the other Old Mermaids got their land legs, Sister Diana Mermaid still felt watery. Sleepy. And that doesn’t really work in a desert, you all know that. She didn’t tell anyone this, but she felt as if she had lost herself when the Old Sea dried up. Some nights she would try to fall to sleep by singing to herself, “My body lies over the ocean, my body lies over the sea, my body lies over the ocean, so bring back my body to me, to me.” This was not her true siren song, however, and she still could not sleep.
One morning she watched the sun come up over the mountains, ending one more sleepless night. On this morning she heard the whisper of the mountain. Or maybe it was the whisper of the trees on the mountain. The Old Man and Old Woman talking in their sleep? She wasn’t sure. She asked the other Old Mermaids if they could tell what the whisperer was saying. Every one of them told her they couldn’t hear a thing. “You know what this means then?” Mother Star Stupendous said. Sister Diane Mermaid shook her head. “It means the whisper is meant only for you,” Grand Mother Yemaya said. “You must follow it to its source.”
So Sister Ruby Rosarita Mermaid packed Sister Diane Mermaid a lunch, Sister Bridget Mermaid and Sister Faye Mermaid sang her a blessing, and the others wished her well—and off she went.
We can’t be sure of exactly what happened. We’ve heard rumors. Some say she was up that mountain in a couple of hours. Some say she wandered for days, even months, while she had one exciting encounter after another. Some say she was so sleepy that she was lucky she did not fall into harm’s way. My guess is she went up that Old Mountain in her own sweet time, stopping to talk with the Wild Things on her way up. She listened to their problems, offered suggestions, then went on her way again. She probably dropped in on the Old Man and the Old Woman who lived on the mountain. Or they dropped in to see her. And always she heard this whispering. She asked the Wild Things if they heard it. She asked the Old Woman and the Old Man if they heard it. They all said they did not hear it. “It is for you only, Sister Diane Mermaid.”
Sister Diane Mermaid continued to wander, looking for the source of the whispering. She realized it was the whispering which had kept her awake these many nights. If she listened carefully, she thought it could almost be the sound the Old Sea made as it stroked the Earth, the sound it made when it came to shore and then went back out again. But it was more than that, and it was less comforting. It was more or less the Old Sea.
Then she found herself under the most beautiful tree she had ever seen. (And I mean she actually found herself there, but I’m getting ahead of myself.) She was up above an old creekbed when she put our her hand to steady herself—she had not slept now in many many days and she was quite lost—and her hand touched bark. She felt a spark of electricity, although she would not have called it that. She felt a spark. Period. A snippet of lightning. Heat. It went down to her toes. Just for a moment, and then it was gone. This beautiful tree had many branches that were like trunks and the bark had beautiful patterns—mottled, like a snake skin. It looked as though the tree shed its skin again and again to create a beautiful barkscape. Sister Diane Mermaid fell to her knees in admiration.
“You are the most beautiful tree I have ever seen,” she said. “May I rest here for a while? I am looking for the source of the whispering that has been keeping me awake. Not awake awake. Just not sleeping.” By way of answer, the Old Sycamore let drop a few of its nearly-star shaped leaves into Sister Diane Mermaid’s lap. The Old Mermaid rested her back against the tree. “Perhaps I will just rest my eyes for a moment.”
Right there and then Sister Diane Mermaid fell to sleep. When she opened her eyes, it was dark outside. And the Wild Things sat in a horseshoe around a nonexistent fire waiting for her. She squinted. Wait. There was a tiny flame where the nonexistent fire wasn’t. Flickering blue and red above the ground. Across from it, across from her, sat a big black creature.
“Is it you who has been whispering to me?” she asked.
“I do not whisper,” the Old Black Being growled. “You have called to us, and we have come.”
“But you are not the source of the whispering?”
The Old Black Being that was a Bear said, “We are not.”
Sister Diane Mermaid sighed. “I have not told my sister mermaids this, but I miss our old life. I miss my old self. Now I am lost.”
“We can help you with that,” the Old Black Bear said. “We can tell you where you are.”
“Where am I?” she asked.
“You are here,” the Old Black Bear said.
Sister Diane Mermaid thought about this, and then she nodded. What the Old Black Bear said made perfect sense. Exquisite beautiful sense. She felt the Old Sycamore behind her supporting her. She felt the Earth beneath her. She felt the twinkle of the stars above her. She felt the presence of the Old and New Wild Things all around. She felt completely at home with herself, and she felt herself completely at home. She felt, she felt, she felt. Ahhhhh.
And then she heard the whispering again. This time she recognized it. It was the whispering of her own being. It was the whisper of the Old Sea pulsing inside her—pulsing inside every living being.
Sister Diane Mermaid gazed at the tiny flame in the nonexistent fire.
“Does that belong to me?” she asked. She got up and walked to the tiny flame. The Old Bear took the flame onto her paw as she stood. It danced on her palm. She held it up to Sister Diane Mermaid’s chest and then pressed it into her heart. It tickled and Sister Diane Mermaid smiled. Felt warm. The warmth spread throughout her whole body. She shook herself until it all felt all right.
The Old and New Wild things cheered. Or roared. Growled. Howled.
“Welcome, Sister Ursula Divine Mermaid,” the Old Black Bear said.
And that is how Sister Diane Mermaid became Sister Ursula Divine Mermaid. She Who Is Most At Home Where the Wild Things Live: in her own heart. They danced until dawn.
She opened her eyes, and it was morning. She wondered for a moment if it had all been a dream, but she knew it didn’t matter. Old Mermaid dreams are very powerful indeed.
She hugged and thanked the Old Sycamore. She found a stick up against the tree, just her size. When she touched it, she felt the spark again. It flowed through her whole body, constantly—just like the Old Sea. She thanked the Old Sycamore for the walking stick. She looked around and knew right where she was.
She walked down the mountain and returned to the Old Mermaid Sanctuary where the Old Mermaids met her with wet kisses and Old Mermaid hugs.
One of the Old Mermaids had problems sleeping, however. She had a little more trouble with the shifting of their lives than some of the others; although truth be told, they all had some difficulties. Sister Lyra Musica Mermaid was a bit afraid of the desert creatures for a while. Sister Laughs A Lot had nightmares. Grand Mother Yemaya Mermaid started snoring. And Sister Diana Mermaid couldn’t sleep.
Sister Diana Mermaid who loved the Old Wild Things missed the creatures of the Old Sea. And she missed her Old Self. She was a tough Old Mermaid. Fit in mind and body. Yet while the other Old Mermaids got their land legs, Sister Diana Mermaid still felt watery. Sleepy. And that doesn’t really work in a desert, you all know that. She didn’t tell anyone this, but she felt as if she had lost herself when the Old Sea dried up. Some nights she would try to fall to sleep by singing to herself, “My body lies over the ocean, my body lies over the sea, my body lies over the ocean, so bring back my body to me, to me.” This was not her true siren song, however, and she still could not sleep.
One morning she watched the sun come up over the mountains, ending one more sleepless night. On this morning she heard the whisper of the mountain. Or maybe it was the whisper of the trees on the mountain. The Old Man and Old Woman talking in their sleep? She wasn’t sure. She asked the other Old Mermaids if they could tell what the whisperer was saying. Every one of them told her they couldn’t hear a thing. “You know what this means then?” Mother Star Stupendous said. Sister Diane Mermaid shook her head. “It means the whisper is meant only for you,” Grand Mother Yemaya said. “You must follow it to its source.”
So Sister Ruby Rosarita Mermaid packed Sister Diane Mermaid a lunch, Sister Bridget Mermaid and Sister Faye Mermaid sang her a blessing, and the others wished her well—and off she went.
We can’t be sure of exactly what happened. We’ve heard rumors. Some say she was up that mountain in a couple of hours. Some say she wandered for days, even months, while she had one exciting encounter after another. Some say she was so sleepy that she was lucky she did not fall into harm’s way. My guess is she went up that Old Mountain in her own sweet time, stopping to talk with the Wild Things on her way up. She listened to their problems, offered suggestions, then went on her way again. She probably dropped in on the Old Man and the Old Woman who lived on the mountain. Or they dropped in to see her. And always she heard this whispering. She asked the Wild Things if they heard it. She asked the Old Woman and the Old Man if they heard it. They all said they did not hear it. “It is for you only, Sister Diane Mermaid.”
Sister Diane Mermaid continued to wander, looking for the source of the whispering. She realized it was the whispering which had kept her awake these many nights. If she listened carefully, she thought it could almost be the sound the Old Sea made as it stroked the Earth, the sound it made when it came to shore and then went back out again. But it was more than that, and it was less comforting. It was more or less the Old Sea.
Then she found herself under the most beautiful tree she had ever seen. (And I mean she actually found herself there, but I’m getting ahead of myself.) She was up above an old creekbed when she put our her hand to steady herself—she had not slept now in many many days and she was quite lost—and her hand touched bark. She felt a spark of electricity, although she would not have called it that. She felt a spark. Period. A snippet of lightning. Heat. It went down to her toes. Just for a moment, and then it was gone. This beautiful tree had many branches that were like trunks and the bark had beautiful patterns—mottled, like a snake skin. It looked as though the tree shed its skin again and again to create a beautiful barkscape. Sister Diane Mermaid fell to her knees in admiration.
“You are the most beautiful tree I have ever seen,” she said. “May I rest here for a while? I am looking for the source of the whispering that has been keeping me awake. Not awake awake. Just not sleeping.” By way of answer, the Old Sycamore let drop a few of its nearly-star shaped leaves into Sister Diane Mermaid’s lap. The Old Mermaid rested her back against the tree. “Perhaps I will just rest my eyes for a moment.”
Right there and then Sister Diane Mermaid fell to sleep. When she opened her eyes, it was dark outside. And the Wild Things sat in a horseshoe around a nonexistent fire waiting for her. She squinted. Wait. There was a tiny flame where the nonexistent fire wasn’t. Flickering blue and red above the ground. Across from it, across from her, sat a big black creature.
“Is it you who has been whispering to me?” she asked.
“I do not whisper,” the Old Black Being growled. “You have called to us, and we have come.”
“But you are not the source of the whispering?”
The Old Black Being that was a Bear said, “We are not.”
Sister Diane Mermaid sighed. “I have not told my sister mermaids this, but I miss our old life. I miss my old self. Now I am lost.”
“We can help you with that,” the Old Black Bear said. “We can tell you where you are.”
“Where am I?” she asked.
“You are here,” the Old Black Bear said.
Sister Diane Mermaid thought about this, and then she nodded. What the Old Black Bear said made perfect sense. Exquisite beautiful sense. She felt the Old Sycamore behind her supporting her. She felt the Earth beneath her. She felt the twinkle of the stars above her. She felt the presence of the Old and New Wild Things all around. She felt completely at home with herself, and she felt herself completely at home. She felt, she felt, she felt. Ahhhhh.
And then she heard the whispering again. This time she recognized it. It was the whispering of her own being. It was the whisper of the Old Sea pulsing inside her—pulsing inside every living being.
Sister Diane Mermaid gazed at the tiny flame in the nonexistent fire.
“Does that belong to me?” she asked. She got up and walked to the tiny flame. The Old Bear took the flame onto her paw as she stood. It danced on her palm. She held it up to Sister Diane Mermaid’s chest and then pressed it into her heart. It tickled and Sister Diane Mermaid smiled. Felt warm. The warmth spread throughout her whole body. She shook herself until it all felt all right.
The Old and New Wild things cheered. Or roared. Growled. Howled.
“Welcome, Sister Ursula Divine Mermaid,” the Old Black Bear said.
And that is how Sister Diane Mermaid became Sister Ursula Divine Mermaid. She Who Is Most At Home Where the Wild Things Live: in her own heart. They danced until dawn.
She opened her eyes, and it was morning. She wondered for a moment if it had all been a dream, but she knew it didn’t matter. Old Mermaid dreams are very powerful indeed.
She hugged and thanked the Old Sycamore. She found a stick up against the tree, just her size. When she touched it, she felt the spark again. It flowed through her whole body, constantly—just like the Old Sea. She thanked the Old Sycamore for the walking stick. She looked around and knew right where she was.
She walked down the mountain and returned to the Old Mermaid Sanctuary where the Old Mermaids met her with wet kisses and Old Mermaid hugs.
Labels: Old Mermaids
4 comments
Friday, August 11, 2006
Story Time
It's near the end of the day. Mario is upstairs reading before sleep. It's been a long and sometimes harrowing week. Maybe harrowing is too strong a word. What the people in Lebanon are going through is harrowing. My week has just been difficult. I suppose. Watching other people suffer is difficult.
As I sat by Linda's side this afternoon, I thought about god again and reaffirmed my disbelief in an omnipotent omniscient god. If something/someone had the power to stop suffering, they would do it, right? Unless they were a cruel despicable evil S.O.B. (Or as Paul Erdös calls god: the Supreme Fascist.) Therefore, either god doesn't exist or if it does exist, it is evil.
I’m not saying geni loci and the rest of the Invisibles are not possible. Probable. I'm not eschewing the Old Wild Mother (as Cate calls her). But they are not omnipotent. (If they were and they did not stop suffering, I would call them Supreme Fascists, too.) There’s the difference.
But I haven't the energy for a thealogical argument right this second.
Tomorrow I have a reading at the library. I'll read scenes from Mercy, Unbound. I'll probably read a bit of Broken Moon and Church of the Old Mermaids. I don't do many readings any more. It doesn't really help with overall sales of a book, and it can be exhausting. So I only do ones I really want to do. It should be fun, although I was dreading it for a while—I couldn’t find people to stay with Linda while I was gone. Serena has a class, and nearly everyone else is out of town. Fortunately Linda’s niece is coming for part of the day, and Serena's godmother is coming for part of the day. Hurrah!
So tomorrow I'll talk about story at my reading. Maybe how I started out. I started writing stories before I could write. But you've heard that story before. When I was in college, I was in love with the language, but I didn't understand plot. Didn't understand story enough. After Clarion (the six week workshop where I met Mario), language became just a tool to create story. It was all about plot. Now I understand story and I love the language. But I'm still an Ernest Hemingway kind of writer. He could say so much with so little. I ain’t a flowery writer. If I can’t describe something in a sentence, I rarely do it.
I had more to write on this topic, but I am weary to the bone. I need to get some sleep. I don't generally give writing advice, even when I’m asked. I think most writing advice and writing books are crap. Once you know the language and understand basic sentence structure and grammar, I think you learn fiction writing by doing two things: reading fiction and writing fiction. But that’s just what I think. I also recommend two writing books, Damon Knight's Creating Short Fiction and John Gardner's On Becoming a Novelist.
I reread Damon’s book regularly—although I just looked for it and can’t find it. Damon was one of the instructors at Clarion. I miss his presence on this planet. I never liked John Gardner’s fiction; he clearly didn’t take his own advice. His writing books are quite good, however. So that’s all the advice I’ll give; I don’t want to stray into crap. Of course, maybe I already have. Strayed. I am a natural born writer (if there is such a thing), so it was probably easier for me. Mario has reminded me of that. And I’ve been writing for 45 years. I know what I did: I learned the basics. Then I practiced, practiced, practiced—and observed by reading. But I said that already.
Okay. This Old Storyteller is going to bed. Still looking for the Sand Man.
Wish me luck. 0 comments
As I sat by Linda's side this afternoon, I thought about god again and reaffirmed my disbelief in an omnipotent omniscient god. If something/someone had the power to stop suffering, they would do it, right? Unless they were a cruel despicable evil S.O.B. (Or as Paul Erdös calls god: the Supreme Fascist.) Therefore, either god doesn't exist or if it does exist, it is evil.
I’m not saying geni loci and the rest of the Invisibles are not possible. Probable. I'm not eschewing the Old Wild Mother (as Cate calls her). But they are not omnipotent. (If they were and they did not stop suffering, I would call them Supreme Fascists, too.) There’s the difference.
But I haven't the energy for a thealogical argument right this second.
Tomorrow I have a reading at the library. I'll read scenes from Mercy, Unbound. I'll probably read a bit of Broken Moon and Church of the Old Mermaids. I don't do many readings any more. It doesn't really help with overall sales of a book, and it can be exhausting. So I only do ones I really want to do. It should be fun, although I was dreading it for a while—I couldn’t find people to stay with Linda while I was gone. Serena has a class, and nearly everyone else is out of town. Fortunately Linda’s niece is coming for part of the day, and Serena's godmother is coming for part of the day. Hurrah!
So tomorrow I'll talk about story at my reading. Maybe how I started out. I started writing stories before I could write. But you've heard that story before. When I was in college, I was in love with the language, but I didn't understand plot. Didn't understand story enough. After Clarion (the six week workshop where I met Mario), language became just a tool to create story. It was all about plot. Now I understand story and I love the language. But I'm still an Ernest Hemingway kind of writer. He could say so much with so little. I ain’t a flowery writer. If I can’t describe something in a sentence, I rarely do it.
I had more to write on this topic, but I am weary to the bone. I need to get some sleep. I don't generally give writing advice, even when I’m asked. I think most writing advice and writing books are crap. Once you know the language and understand basic sentence structure and grammar, I think you learn fiction writing by doing two things: reading fiction and writing fiction. But that’s just what I think. I also recommend two writing books, Damon Knight's Creating Short Fiction and John Gardner's On Becoming a Novelist.
I reread Damon’s book regularly—although I just looked for it and can’t find it. Damon was one of the instructors at Clarion. I miss his presence on this planet. I never liked John Gardner’s fiction; he clearly didn’t take his own advice. His writing books are quite good, however. So that’s all the advice I’ll give; I don’t want to stray into crap. Of course, maybe I already have. Strayed. I am a natural born writer (if there is such a thing), so it was probably easier for me. Mario has reminded me of that. And I’ve been writing for 45 years. I know what I did: I learned the basics. Then I practiced, practiced, practiced—and observed by reading. But I said that already.
Okay. This Old Storyteller is going to bed. Still looking for the Sand Man.
Wish me luck. 0 comments
Thursday, August 10, 2006
WWTOMD?
What would the Old Mermaids do?
That's what I was wondering as I was dancing in my living room, trying to shake off this exhaustion, this funk, this anger and irritation. What would the Old Mermaids do if they encountered someone like the little idiot who claimed he was a real man because he told his wife to shut-up and showed her who was boss in the bedroom (see previous post). They wouldn't even see him, he would be so insignificant. He'd be like a gnat, so maybe his buzzing might get a little annoying. It's possible one of them, most likely Sissy Maggie Mermaid (Sister Magdalene Mermaid), might notice him for an instant and she'd say, "Come back when you grow up. Right now I'm busy falling in love with the moon up in the sky and the coyote in the wash and sycamores in the mountain and the man down the lane and the woman up in the hills. Ain't got time for little boys who haven't learned about respect, let alone how to tie their own shoes." Although she'd probably be more clever than that because Sissy Maggie Mermaid could sleep through a monsoon, hurricane, tornado, or the hot air of some...people, so she wouldn't be hung over from lack of Zzzz's like I am.
That's what I was wondering as I was dancing in my living room, trying to shake off this exhaustion, this funk, this anger and irritation. What would the Old Mermaids do if they encountered someone like the little idiot who claimed he was a real man because he told his wife to shut-up and showed her who was boss in the bedroom (see previous post). They wouldn't even see him, he would be so insignificant. He'd be like a gnat, so maybe his buzzing might get a little annoying. It's possible one of them, most likely Sissy Maggie Mermaid (Sister Magdalene Mermaid), might notice him for an instant and she'd say, "Come back when you grow up. Right now I'm busy falling in love with the moon up in the sky and the coyote in the wash and sycamores in the mountain and the man down the lane and the woman up in the hills. Ain't got time for little boys who haven't learned about respect, let alone how to tie their own shoes." Although she'd probably be more clever than that because Sissy Maggie Mermaid could sleep through a monsoon, hurricane, tornado, or the hot air of some...people, so she wouldn't be hung over from lack of Zzzz's like I am.
Labels: Old Mermaids
0 comments
Argument for Castration
So you know in the previous post I was debating whether to puke or go to sleep? Well, I read this article and the decision was made for me. I'll probably regret this post when I actually wake up since it doesn't go along with my "subduing the demons with splendour," but I really want to bitch slap this man. (Me being the bitch who is gonna slap him.) The comments are disgusting, too. His description of a "real" man is a description of a sociopath. I like the breakdown of the essay in Feministe. (via)
5 comments
A Dog Named Joe...
...and A Girl Named Whiny and Tired.
I took a bath. Nearly fell asleep in the bathtub while reading Animals in Translation. As I was sleepily stumbling into bed and Mario was covering me up (since he was awake and beginning his day), I asked, "Is designing humane ways to slaughter animals the same as say designing so-called humane ways to kill people." (The author designs "humane" slaughterhouses.) Mario said it is manifestly different. How? Because they're not people. I closed my eyes. "But it's so creepy." "Yes, it is very creepy." He left and I heard rainddrops on the roof. I was out of bed and downstairs in a jiffy, outside nearly naked on our front porch for all the world to see with my arms spread wide and my face uplifted to this rain which wasn't much more than cloud sweat. Still. It was nice.
But I'm very cranky. And sick to my stomach. And tired. Too many crises yesterday.
I had a funny dream. Not last night. Last night I didn't sleep. But the night before. (And yes, with all that's going on in the world, I'm writing about my dreams. That's the way it is.)
I was trying to get home in the dream, but it was dark and the ground was squishy and watery and I could see if I went much further I'd fall into the water. So I turned back. Just then a man appeared. "Oh," I said, "I asked the Universe for help and you appeared. I asked for someone who was not a psychopath. Are you a psychopath?" I don't think he answered but he offered to take me to Lenore's house. I pretended to know who Lenore was and went with him. A dog named Joe came with us. He was black and white. A mutt. Even in the dream I thought it was funny his name was Joe. It was daytime and sunny and snow was everywhere. I saw a white bear. I was glad we were going inside so the bear wouldn't see us. But the bear found us once we were inside the flimsy house, and I could hear him snuffling outside the door. I looked for a place to hide inside the house. I knew the bear would tear the place apart. I decided if I ever built a house it would be made from stainless steel so that the bear couldn't get in. I don't remember what else. But it's interesting the bear has returned to my dreams. (I understand it is probably only interesting to me.) Last week I dreamed of a white cat. I am being visited by white animals.
Did I mention that the hummingbirds (or bird) come to the feeder when I am outside? Mario will sit on the back porch and often no hummingbirds will come. I go outside and say, "I'm here. Come on down." Almost instantly one will appear. I mean literally an instant. One day I was back there by myself and a hummingbird flew right up to me, about a foot away. It was the most extraordinary thing. I wondered if, like the bees, the hummingbird was mistaking me for a flower.
Well, as Bobby said on King of the Hill, "This flower is wilting."
I'm going to eat, throw up, or sleep. Or all of the beside. 0 comments
I took a bath. Nearly fell asleep in the bathtub while reading Animals in Translation. As I was sleepily stumbling into bed and Mario was covering me up (since he was awake and beginning his day), I asked, "Is designing humane ways to slaughter animals the same as say designing so-called humane ways to kill people." (The author designs "humane" slaughterhouses.) Mario said it is manifestly different. How? Because they're not people. I closed my eyes. "But it's so creepy." "Yes, it is very creepy." He left and I heard rainddrops on the roof. I was out of bed and downstairs in a jiffy, outside nearly naked on our front porch for all the world to see with my arms spread wide and my face uplifted to this rain which wasn't much more than cloud sweat. Still. It was nice.
But I'm very cranky. And sick to my stomach. And tired. Too many crises yesterday.
I had a funny dream. Not last night. Last night I didn't sleep. But the night before. (And yes, with all that's going on in the world, I'm writing about my dreams. That's the way it is.)
I was trying to get home in the dream, but it was dark and the ground was squishy and watery and I could see if I went much further I'd fall into the water. So I turned back. Just then a man appeared. "Oh," I said, "I asked the Universe for help and you appeared. I asked for someone who was not a psychopath. Are you a psychopath?" I don't think he answered but he offered to take me to Lenore's house. I pretended to know who Lenore was and went with him. A dog named Joe came with us. He was black and white. A mutt. Even in the dream I thought it was funny his name was Joe. It was daytime and sunny and snow was everywhere. I saw a white bear. I was glad we were going inside so the bear wouldn't see us. But the bear found us once we were inside the flimsy house, and I could hear him snuffling outside the door. I looked for a place to hide inside the house. I knew the bear would tear the place apart. I decided if I ever built a house it would be made from stainless steel so that the bear couldn't get in. I don't remember what else. But it's interesting the bear has returned to my dreams. (I understand it is probably only interesting to me.) Last week I dreamed of a white cat. I am being visited by white animals.
Did I mention that the hummingbirds (or bird) come to the feeder when I am outside? Mario will sit on the back porch and often no hummingbirds will come. I go outside and say, "I'm here. Come on down." Almost instantly one will appear. I mean literally an instant. One day I was back there by myself and a hummingbird flew right up to me, about a foot away. It was the most extraordinary thing. I wondered if, like the bees, the hummingbird was mistaking me for a flower.
Well, as Bobby said on King of the Hill, "This flower is wilting."
I'm going to eat, throw up, or sleep. Or all of the beside. 0 comments
Happy Lunar Lammas
Okay, that was yesterday, but since I'm up in the middle of the night it still feels like yesterday. As I went back to bed for the millionth time tonight/this morning, Mario opened his arms for me, and I lay on his shoulder and said, "I've decided I don't like menopause." He said, "I haven't heard that many people like it." What else is the poor guy gonna say in the middle of the freaking night? (I didn't sweat for about fifteen years. Now I sweat nearly all the time. I suppose it's better to sweat than not to, but geez louise, let's have some balance.)
Got up a few minutes later and went out and looked at the moon. "You and me, babe," I said.
Into the breach...er, the bed...again. Ta!
And go here for more Lammas moon info and gorgeous photo. 0 comments
Got up a few minutes later and went out and looked at the moon. "You and me, babe," I said.
Into the breach...er, the bed...again. Ta!
And go here for more Lammas moon info and gorgeous photo. 0 comments
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Don't Give Up
Ahhhh, what a great piece today in Alternet by The Rev. Jim Rigby. It was just what I needed this morning. Here's a snippet:
"Nothing great was ever accomplished in a single lifetime. We must emblazon those words in our hearts. The struggle is always worth it. For, if we do not improve our own time we have made possible some future happiness. If all around us is hopeless it is the perfect time to begin loosening the soil for future planters. The more hopeless the political situation, the more important are those who live and teach the principles of human decency.
"Those who live by great principles are above the ebb and flow of political circumstance. They carry their treasure with them. And, really, the struggle offers so much more than hope. Even if we knew we would lose every campaign between here and the grave, we should still choose this path of service to humanity because it is the only road that leads to a life worth living."
Blessed be, Rev. 2 comments
"Nothing great was ever accomplished in a single lifetime. We must emblazon those words in our hearts. The struggle is always worth it. For, if we do not improve our own time we have made possible some future happiness. If all around us is hopeless it is the perfect time to begin loosening the soil for future planters. The more hopeless the political situation, the more important are those who live and teach the principles of human decency.
"Those who live by great principles are above the ebb and flow of political circumstance. They carry their treasure with them. And, really, the struggle offers so much more than hope. Even if we knew we would lose every campaign between here and the grave, we should still choose this path of service to humanity because it is the only road that leads to a life worth living."
Blessed be, Rev. 2 comments
A Rose By Any Other Name
Most days I don't feel as though I do enough. I am struggling every day to make the right decisions to create peace, love, and healing. When to do, what to do, when not to do, what not to do. I don't think we can all sit around praying for peace; I do believe there are "right" actions to be taken. Figuring out what those are is difficult. For years I did, did, did. I saw no changes. I decided I needed to "do" differently. So I plug along, hoping I make the right choices, just as so many of you do. I hope I'm not one of the people Sophie Scholl described before she was killed by the Nazis:
"The real damage is done by those millions who want to 'survive.' The honest men (and women) who just want to be left in peace. Those who don't want their little lives disturbed by anything bigger than themselves. Those with no sides and no causes. Those who won't take measure of their own strength, for fear of antagonizing their own weakness. Those who don't like to make waves - or enemies. Those for whom freedom, honor, truth, and principles are only literature. Those who live small, mate small, die small. It's the reductionist approach to life: if you keep it small, you'll keep it under control. If you don't make any noise, the bogeyman won't find you. But it's all an illusion, because they die too, those people who roll up their spirits into tiny little balls so as to be safe. Safe?! From what? Life is always on the edge of death; narrow streets lead to the same place as wide avenues, and a little candle burns itself out just like a flaming torch does. I choose my own way to burn." (via)
Windchime Walker Patricia spent her last day of protest in D.C. yesterday. It was her most dangerous day. Sitting on her scooter (she has MS) in front of the White House she was accosted by a group of Israeli men. Young angry men. At one point when she is talking about love, the men tell her it is too late for that. I understand their point. If someone is about to kill you—say someone like Hitler—meeting him with love is fine, but if you want to live and you want to save others, you've got to have a plan. (Gandhi had a plan; MLK had a plan. It wasn't just about standing there and taking it.) I understand the terror and fury that comes with having your safety threatened, which is probably how the Israelis are feeling. But what's happening in Lebanon is wrong. What's happening in Iraq is wrong. I admire what Patricia is doing. I send her much love. May her road home be smooth and uneventful. 1 comments
"The real damage is done by those millions who want to 'survive.' The honest men (and women) who just want to be left in peace. Those who don't want their little lives disturbed by anything bigger than themselves. Those with no sides and no causes. Those who won't take measure of their own strength, for fear of antagonizing their own weakness. Those who don't like to make waves - or enemies. Those for whom freedom, honor, truth, and principles are only literature. Those who live small, mate small, die small. It's the reductionist approach to life: if you keep it small, you'll keep it under control. If you don't make any noise, the bogeyman won't find you. But it's all an illusion, because they die too, those people who roll up their spirits into tiny little balls so as to be safe. Safe?! From what? Life is always on the edge of death; narrow streets lead to the same place as wide avenues, and a little candle burns itself out just like a flaming torch does. I choose my own way to burn." (via)
Windchime Walker Patricia spent her last day of protest in D.C. yesterday. It was her most dangerous day. Sitting on her scooter (she has MS) in front of the White House she was accosted by a group of Israeli men. Young angry men. At one point when she is talking about love, the men tell her it is too late for that. I understand their point. If someone is about to kill you—say someone like Hitler—meeting him with love is fine, but if you want to live and you want to save others, you've got to have a plan. (Gandhi had a plan; MLK had a plan. It wasn't just about standing there and taking it.) I understand the terror and fury that comes with having your safety threatened, which is probably how the Israelis are feeling. But what's happening in Lebanon is wrong. What's happening in Iraq is wrong. I admire what Patricia is doing. I send her much love. May her road home be smooth and uneventful. 1 comments
I Need a Man...
A particular man. The sand man. Been about three days since my last sleep. Wait, four nights. This is my third night without sleep. Tonight I fell to sleep on the couch watching old Star Trek tapes: Voyager, Deep Space 9, Next Generation. I awakened after about an hour. Not sure why. Then the phone rang. 1:10 a.m. Linda was in trouble, so I drove to her house. She couldn't get her bed to go up (the head part) and she was in extreme pain. Poor sweetheart. She's so alone. Her daughter is at the end of her rope, so she is gone for a while. Linda is alone all night now, from 5:00 p.m. on unless I find people to come sit with her for a while each night. That's very difficult, especially at this time of year. I fixed the bed and held her hand until she fell to sleep. Then I sat in the kitchen for a couple of hours working on Church of the Old Mermaids, just to make certain she was okay. Now I'm home again. Tried to sleep. Couldn't. Put in another Deep Space 9 tape.
I finished the rewrite of COTOM when I got home. At least the first run-through of this rewrite.
The wind is blowing outside. An almost full moon brightens the whole world. I looked at the headlines online. Read some articles. Felt sick to my stomach. To hell in a handbasket, that is for sure.
Now I think I'll make some toast, then try to sleep. If you sent me a letter last week and I never wrote back, you might want to try again. My kimantieau.com e-mail went down for a couple of days last week. If you wrote to me in the past couple of days, I've just been otherwise occupied.
Is this coherent?
See you on the flip side. I'll be back after I get some sleep and get COTOM finished. 2 comments
I finished the rewrite of COTOM when I got home. At least the first run-through of this rewrite.
The wind is blowing outside. An almost full moon brightens the whole world. I looked at the headlines online. Read some articles. Felt sick to my stomach. To hell in a handbasket, that is for sure.
Now I think I'll make some toast, then try to sleep. If you sent me a letter last week and I never wrote back, you might want to try again. My kimantieau.com e-mail went down for a couple of days last week. If you wrote to me in the past couple of days, I've just been otherwise occupied.
Is this coherent?
See you on the flip side. I'll be back after I get some sleep and get COTOM finished. 2 comments
Gotta Admire This Guy
Galloway is at it again: not letting the media get away with anything.
0 comments
Monday, August 07, 2006
A Memorial
Bernadette sent this link to a commentary about the two Washington women who were recently murdered out in the forest. (Thanks, Bernadette.) I can't remember if I told you I went out and walked Falling Creek by myself about a week after the murders. Went all the way to the falls. I thought about the murders all the way there, just as I often think of dying when I am on the trails alone. But I also communed with that which is sacred to me. Wild places are my churches. I wish others felt the same, but they don't always.
May Mary and Susanna rest in Beauty!
Blessed be. 0 comments
May Mary and Susanna rest in Beauty!
Blessed be. 0 comments
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Gotta Laugh
I'm so glad I don't have TV now—judging from what The Daily Show is making fun of these days. (It may take a second to load.) According to the major news organizations apocalypse is on its way. I think Jon Stewart's solution is a good one: TURN OFF THE TV. There now.
0 comments
Friday, August 04, 2006
Bill Moyers for Prez
Have you read this piece by Molly Ivins about running Bill Moyers for president? I love Molly. Love, love, love her. Read it to the end. Great anecdote there.
1 comments
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
MLK on Resistance is Not Futile
From It's All One Thing comes a reminder of what pacifism is and is not according to Dr. Martin Luther King. "...true pacifism is not nonresistance to evil, but nonviolent resistance to evil." It's a great piece.
0 comments
Compassion Harvest
On this Lammas day, on this day of the first harvest, I wish that the American people would wake up from their self-induced slumber; I wish that the American politicians would fill up with compassion and activism. We've been talking with friends about this issue. It's as though the public has been hypnotized or something. It is very odd. It's as though they want to believe the terrorist mantra sent out by the administration, by the media. We watched V for Vendetta last night. Although I think the movie is quite flawed, it had some moments (which were probably taken right from the comic). Someone in the media said, "Our job is to report the news, not fabricate it. That's the government's job." When V doesn't die after being shot many times, the bad guy asks why. V says, "Ideas are bulletproof." But they aren't ignoranceproof, are they?
I plan to continue "creating a garden" while so many work to destroy the world. Does that sound like I'm fiddling while Rome is burning? Maybe. The idea of "creating a garden" isn't original with me. I read it recently, but I'm not sure where. Keep creating while they destroy. If we get enough Creatrixes, we'll eventually outnumber the Destroyers, eh? Hey, I don't have the answers. I'm struggling to find the right action, too. Patricia is still in D.C. I admire her and am grateful to her for her work. What's happening in Lebanon is horrific. I was listening to Randi Rhodes the other day. She pointed out that we have terrorist cells all over the United States. There were terrorist cells in Florida. Would it have made sense to bomb Florida or bomb the Midwest? Of course not. Well, that's exactly what is going on in Lebanon. It is a law enforcement issue. That's how you prevent the terrible carnage we are seeing all over the Middle East.
I'm sitting here at my kitchen table looking out at the hummingbirds at my feeder. Every time I see a hummingbird I feel a burst of joy. Today I will work on Church of the Old Mermaids. I want the rewrite done before I leave for my trip to the Southwest in September. Subdue the demons with splendour.
I'm making a spaghetti sauce with the produce that was just about to go bad in my fridge. Eggplant, zucchini, green peppers, and tomatoes. I just realized that sounds a lot like ratatouille, which neither of us likes. Hmmm. Well, I feel silly.
Ain't it grand?
I went over to Linda's the other day for a few hours when her caregiver didn't show up again. I'm almost finished reading Opal to her. We convinced her she could be alone for a while, but then yesterday when her caregiver had to leave early and both Serena and I were gone, her catheter shut down and caused her bladder to spasm (quite painfully), so we're back to having someone with her at all times. I wonder how other people do these things? Another friend of mine goes every night to care for her mother. She spends every evening taking care of her. She works all day, plus she helps with her husband's business, and she takes care of her mother every night. I admire so many people. We hear stories of what shits everyone is, but then every single day I see people just walking through the fire. Every day I want to bow down and kiss their feet. Every single day.
Enjoy your harvest, whatever it is.
Much love. You are all amazing.
Yes, you are.
May You Celebrate in Beauty! 5 comments
I plan to continue "creating a garden" while so many work to destroy the world. Does that sound like I'm fiddling while Rome is burning? Maybe. The idea of "creating a garden" isn't original with me. I read it recently, but I'm not sure where. Keep creating while they destroy. If we get enough Creatrixes, we'll eventually outnumber the Destroyers, eh? Hey, I don't have the answers. I'm struggling to find the right action, too. Patricia is still in D.C. I admire her and am grateful to her for her work. What's happening in Lebanon is horrific. I was listening to Randi Rhodes the other day. She pointed out that we have terrorist cells all over the United States. There were terrorist cells in Florida. Would it have made sense to bomb Florida or bomb the Midwest? Of course not. Well, that's exactly what is going on in Lebanon. It is a law enforcement issue. That's how you prevent the terrible carnage we are seeing all over the Middle East.
I'm sitting here at my kitchen table looking out at the hummingbirds at my feeder. Every time I see a hummingbird I feel a burst of joy. Today I will work on Church of the Old Mermaids. I want the rewrite done before I leave for my trip to the Southwest in September. Subdue the demons with splendour.
I'm making a spaghetti sauce with the produce that was just about to go bad in my fridge. Eggplant, zucchini, green peppers, and tomatoes. I just realized that sounds a lot like ratatouille, which neither of us likes. Hmmm. Well, I feel silly.
Ain't it grand?
I went over to Linda's the other day for a few hours when her caregiver didn't show up again. I'm almost finished reading Opal to her. We convinced her she could be alone for a while, but then yesterday when her caregiver had to leave early and both Serena and I were gone, her catheter shut down and caused her bladder to spasm (quite painfully), so we're back to having someone with her at all times. I wonder how other people do these things? Another friend of mine goes every night to care for her mother. She spends every evening taking care of her. She works all day, plus she helps with her husband's business, and she takes care of her mother every night. I admire so many people. We hear stories of what shits everyone is, but then every single day I see people just walking through the fire. Every day I want to bow down and kiss their feet. Every single day.
Enjoy your harvest, whatever it is.
Much love. You are all amazing.
Yes, you are.
May You Celebrate in Beauty! 5 comments
The Old Sea Returns
For those of you interested in Church of the Old Mermaids, here's a photo of the flooded wash where they were "born." You've seen pics of it dry. The Old Mermaid Emma is talking about is the one in the photos in my post.
0 commentsAll photographs and written material copyright © 2003-2007 by Kim Antieau unless otherwise indicated. May not be used without permission.
