Like minds blog together

Do you feel life? Or do you FEEL life?

2012-01-07T13:53:00.005-07:00

While growing up, my mother often told me I was very quick into happiness, but equally quick into gloominess. She saw it as a problem. I never did. I knew what she meant, but I was not worried, nor affected, by her thinking around the topic. On a few occasions my dad confided he was pretty much the same way: quick to be happy; quick to be sad. As a therapist, I could get into the brain science of what that all means. I won't. I could get into the behavioral science of what it means. I won't. My father endured a great deal of suffering because of this "affliction" (as my mother termed it). Still, I recall how fast Dad always was to see the jolly humor side of any situation, and to fully enjoy the brightly illuminated side of life. Don't know if this makes sense to others. Will offer some examples. Once, while my family and some family friends, were en route to our favorite camp site, we drove upon a horrible scene. A livestock hauler was in an accident, and a horse was badly injured, both its back legs with compound fractures. The man who owned the mare begged for anyone who'd stopped to help assist him in "putting the horse down." Dad didn't enjoy the job, but he used his hand pistol, and one quick shot, and the horse was set free from her suffering. That entire weekend, Dad sat quietly beside the fire in the campsite. Everyone tried to engage him in walks, or hikes, or fishing from the stream. Dad was lost in sadness. Years later, Dad talked about that moment. He said the horse seemed not to understand what had happened, and that he could feel the horse's spirit tagging along, thinking my dad would show her (the horse) what to do. Dad said eventually he believed she (the horse) crossed over, and until that moment, he was simply deeply sad. I've had hundreds of moments similar to that in my life. Not similar to the horse's sad fate, but similar in reaction. It works both directions, and luckily, the joyful stuff always outlasts the sorrow-sad stuff. For instance, I well remember many years ago when I was spending time in Istanbul. I'd ridden busses, taken the wrong train, and endured taxis, all during a miserable rainy day, to reach a well known landmark. Upon finally arriving, I was almost too distressed to care. Emerging from the taxi, the rain suddenly ceased, the sun pushed clouds aside, and there were people sitting under little umbrellas playing backgammon. The peaceful beauty of everything overwhelmed my senses, and the smile that overtook my face lasted for days. I always saw this quickness to happy, and this quickness to gloom, as more a blessing than an affliction. What I feel, I truly, truly feel. A lot. I don't have emotions that are middle of the road. I have BIG emotions. I don't do mediocre.

Enlisting friends in your battles? Stop it.

2011-11-29T08:47:00.003-07:00

I was forty years old when I divorced my ex. Old enough to behave. When it came to our friends and family, I lost all signs of maturity and began something I knew better than doing. My mother intervened in the early stages, before my plan ever got under way, with a lecture I will never forget, and will always and forever live by. She called my behavior a tactic of enlistment. She pointed out what I was doing was horrible. I was appealing to my family and to my friends (most of who had also been friends with my ex) to enlist in my army. The purpose of my army was to destroy him. Like chalk on the blackboard, I wanted this “army” to help me erase him from my life and their life by ignoring him, excluding him, berating him, finding endless fault with him. Why? None of these people were married to him. Not one of them had a bad history with him. Not one had reason to dislike him, much less, destroy him.

“If you were six years old I might be understanding,” my mother said. “You are forty; and, you are a therapist. If you don’t have the maturity to understand what you are engaging in is wrong, then your education and professional skills should be flashing red lights in your path. Stop it. Stop it right now.”

I was embarrassed and humiliated by my mother’s harsh words. I was also grateful that she loved me, and she loved my ex, enough to step into the line of fire and put a stop to my efforts. I was dressed in full armor, sword in hand, and had already begun efforts to fill my army with everyone I could enlist, expecting them to fight my battle, expecting them to understand. Trouble is, they didn’t want to take sides. They did not want to go to battle. They did not understand. They certainly did not want to be ammunition from my war chest, and they did not want to find themselves in a fight that had nothing to do with them.

Thank all the Great Spirits for mothers who have the sense of right and wrong, fairness and futility, and seem to see our future before we live it.

As a result of my mother’s intervention, I never went to battle with my ex. We simply divorced and put our feet on paths leading us in opposite directions. He is a good man. He is a kind person. My mother never stopped loving him, because he was part of her family. She mentioned him a few days before she died. She said she wished he’d come to visit her. I assured her that he would if he could.

I’ve been expected, by some, to allow myself to be enlisted in their army. I fall back on my mother’s words, and I tell them, “Your battles are not mine, and your enemy isn’t my enemy.” I won’t be enlisted in those wars.

A Butterfinger, a munchkin and too many cows at the dairy.

2011-09-28T08:43:00.003-06:00

Standing in line at Walmart. The woman in front of me had to be, or was at some time, employed as a packer of things. The items in her cart were so tightly compressed, not a bit of air remained betwixt and between. While she unpacked, stacking things one by one on the counter, her child sidled in front of my cart, and moved slowly toward the candy display. He was within inches of apprehending a Butterfinger when she barked, without missing a beat unloading her items onto the conveyor counter, “Don’t touch that candy! Step back! Put your hands in your pockets and leave them there!”
By now this kid is fixated on the Butterfinger, but he does slide his hands into his back pockets. I noted that, and imagined his mother trained him that way. Back pockets are further from candy displays.
I switched my attention to the check out progress, noticing the cashier required another shopping cart. All those squeeze-tight compressed items expanded after the bagging process, and there’s no way all that stuff would fit into one basket.
“I’m six,” the kid announced, holding up four fingers. He was staring at me.
“He’s five,” his mother barked, without glancing my way.
“Well,” I said to him, “five is pretty old. What do you do for a living?”
He flashed me a look of surprise. “I don’t do anything,” he said.
“Really,” I said.
“What do you do?” he asked.
“I write about little children like you,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why not?” I replied.
His hands had slipped free of the back pockets, and one was about to grasp the Butterfinger.
“Pocket those fingers, Buster, if you wanna keep them!” his mother said a bit sternly.
I was impressed she could see him, through the shopping cart. Maybe she couldn’t actually see him, but her radar was fine-tuned.
The kid re-pocketed his hands. Kind of like invisible handcuffs, I thought. Back pockets. Very effective.
“Why would you get fired for having too many cows at the dairy?” he asked me.
Wow, a little munchkin who speaks in riddles. “You got me swinging,” I said. “Do you know why?”
He shook his head.
Darn, I was thinking. I’d be trying to figure that out for the rest of the day. Why would anyone get fired for having too many cows at the dairy?
The cashier announced the total. The tight-packing mother-who-would-be-obeyed stepped toward the candy display and added two Butterfingers to her order. After she paid, I watched mother and child, pushing two carts filled with bagged items, heading for the exit doors.
I unloaded my few items onto the conveyor counter, then asked the cashier, “Do you know why anyone would get fired for having too many cows at the dairy?”
The cashier seemed stunned and a bit upset. I could tell, she was going to spend the rest of her day doing what I was going to be doing: Trying to figure out a confounded munchkin riddle.

Trouble makers

2011-08-13T09:20:00.003-06:00

Rumors. People start them for endless reasons. People who spread rumors aren’t fact checkers, nor fact conscious. I live on a small ranch near a very small town. A few months ago my dentist told me our mutual friend, Gary Fey, had died. My dentist is a reliable source who does not stray from facts; and I am a fact checker. I did not know any of Gary’s family, but I do know how to research death records in the state of New Mexico. Sure enough, my good friend died. He was young, only 55. He was an artist of enormous talent. He was funny, cheerful and a true visionary. I waited for what seemed a respectful time, then posted my sadness about his loss on my Facebook profile wall. A couple of people sent me emails, asking if I was sure he had died. I would not have said so if I hadn’t had facts, but I advised these people to do what I did: check recent death records in the state.

More recently, I have been in touch with a friend who used to live in this town. She is at the beginning of a journey through cancer. I consider my role, as friend, is to be supportive. I visited one of the town’s stores in search of a cheerful “get well” greeting card. It was my only purchase, and the cashier picked it up and inquired who it was for. I told her, and asked her if she remembered my friend, who used to live here. She said she remembered her well, and she then asked what was wrong with her. I replied my friend was having a cancer procedure. My father died from cancer. I’ve lost many friends to cancer. I don’t make small talk about cancer. It can be fatal, I know that first hand.

I thought no more about that transaction, and would have completely forgotten about it, except that a rumor sprang into motion that my friend had died, and as the rumor went, I was the one credited with having said she’d died. This is one of those incidents where you truly cannot get there from here. Why would I purchase a “get well” card for a person who is already deceased? The notion contains no logic, and is also an element of that transaction which was left out by whoever started this rumor.

My nature is to be logical. I always look for what is rational in a confusion. Rumors are neither logical, nor do they contain any rational elements. The first point at which a rumor falls apart is at the very beginning of the gossip chain. When person A tells person B, “Blah blah blah.” Person B can check the facts. How? Easy. Who did person A credit for saying or doing what? Person B is obligated, by logic and reason (and good manners), to contact that third person and check the facts. The rumor never gets started, if what you are really looking for is facts.

My mother used to call people who spread rumors “tongue waggers.” That type of behavior has no productive value, and can ruin reputations, damage relations, hurt people’s feelings, and generally wreak destructive havoc on communities.

Unlikely playmates

2011-07-17T13:08:00.000-06:00

Nose to nose, baby cat, baby deer, communicating in some secret language. One jumps, the other jumps. Baby deer wags his short stubby tail and returns to the edge of yard where kitten is now hiding beneath a clump of tree limbs. Kitten runs out and touches the deer’s face with a tiny paw. The deer nuzzles the kitten. Such different children in Nature’s plan, but children nonetheless, ready to play with whoever shows up. When the kitten stretches out on the ground, the deer drops to his knees. Perhaps to be closer in size, perhaps to listen more carefully, perhaps just to be polite. Suddenly, the kitten springs up and races to and fro, and the young deer joins in this game of chase. The baby cat is so very small and fragile, and the baby deer is a bit clumsy, but they manage nearly thirty minutes of safe playtime without injuries. No fear, no worry. Just babies having fun. Eventually the young deer raises his head and stands his big ears to alert. He hears his mother calling. Before bounding off, he gives a happy kiss, one last touch of his nose to kitten’s nose, and he is gone. Will they meet again? Will they remember each other when they’ve grown into adulthood? Will they survive the dangers that surround them? To all these questions, I hope so. I truly deeply hope so.

We are all very unfair

2011-06-03T13:36:00.004-06:00

Ever notice how unfair you are? You should occasionally pay attention. We are all judgmental creatures, too, although most of the people I've had that conversation with protest much too loudly that they are not judgmental. You are. I am, too. Our brains work that way. You can accurately say, we have judgmental brains. So, how about fairness? We are also very unfair. This morning one of my cats ran past my office door with a mouse clutched tight in his mouth. I could have felt bad for the mouse, but I did not. Mice wrecked my tractor. They chewed up all the ignition wire. Mice have wrecked the wires in some of my vehicles. Mice are not on my list of creatures I worry about. Deer are different. I love deer. Have lots of them around my ranch. Often share my yard with at least one or two in the early mornings. This afternoon, while driving into town to pick up my mail, I saw a large fawn dead alongside the highway. It had been hit by a vehicle. I hope it died quickly, because it hurts me to believe it suffered. Too often when vehicles collide with deer, the deer suffer horribly before they eventually die. I felt my heart swell with sadness until my whole self was full of pain and sorrow. It affected me deeply, and I will feel worse if I keep thinking about that young deer. Why do I make such a judgment? That the deer's life is more precious than the mouse? I don't know. I could say because I enjoy the deer, and I do not enjoy the mouse. Truthfully? It's because I am unfair. If I were fair, I would suffer equally for the dying mouse, and the dead deer. Am sure I would be a better person if I cared equally for both; but I would also be a person who enjoyed the sneaky little critter who wrecks all the wires in my vehicles. Perhaps one day I will grow in my heart and mind enough to suffer for all things. Until then, I am a judgmental creature who is not fair.

Death.

2011-05-18T15:29:00.004-06:00

Native American ancestry allows me, in the eyes of those who know me, to behave in ways many would never give themselves permission to behave. It is my absolute belief they are missing out on much by not turning loose of their inhibitions and simply being who they feel like being when they most need to be that person. Death and loss are perhaps two of those times. When a loved one dies, our brain wants to shut down. We feel the intensity. It is deeper than one can imagine. On a biological level, our vagus nerve short circuits. We experience sensations we really don’t want to have, like not being part of our body, or suddenly becoming disconnected from our environment, from other people, from ourselves. Our actual brain chemistry seems to turn on us and we begin to feel detached from reality. Social mores jump in and people offer all kinds of ridiculous nonsense. Ridiculous because when you are in the throes of grief after someone very significant to you has died, you cannot hear words. What you hear is their needing you to hurry up and act like your old self again because your grief and your emotions make them uncomfortable. Forget it! Don’t hurry up and act like anything except how you feel. Experience your true feelings. Touch your pain and suffering. Sit with it. Walk with it. Talk to it. It’s the only way you can get through it and can grow from having felt its intensity. There is no stronger grief.

Many years ago I was in the middle of a college class when a person from the administrative offices called me into the hall and told me a family emergency required I go home immediately. I knew, I sensed, those sensations of impending doom. When I heard my brother had died, I could not move from the spot where I was standing. Literally, I could not move. Like a person frozen in time where there is no ability to step forward, no possibility of going backward, nothing above, nothing below, only static, I remained there, suspended without time or space. For several months I would suddenly leave whatever class I was in to go outside and walk. The teachers and my classmates allowed me quiet time. My journey through grief, toward healing, could only be traveled by me. In later years I continued to experience new travels down that path when elder family members passed away, or when friends died. With each journey, I became a bit more prepared for what to expect, but the suffering is always brand new.

The loss of pets is no exception. People can be unbelievably stupid about not understanding how devastating it is for some of us when a beloved dog or cat or horse passes away. Loss is loss, and our brains don’t know the difference. Our brain doesn’t have a compartment for loss of a person, and another compartment for loss of a pet. I will say this again, because many need to hear this: Loss is loss. Our brains don’t know the difference!

A few years ago I lost one of my best friends. She was a rottweiler who grew up in my home. When she was a four week old puppy, I made a little papoose type of bag, and I carried her on my back throughout the day while I worked on the ranch, or around my house. She grew to become an enormously powerful creature who had the timidity of a small child, the loyalty of a knight, and a heart as big as the universe. When I walked the ranch, she was beside me, her nuzzle often reaching out to touch my hand, let me know she was a fierce protector. When I rode my four wheeler around the ranch, she sat on the extra seat and dug her big feet into the cushion so she wouldn’t fall when we sped around trees. Often when I had company, she’d sit between them and me, and emit a low growl when they leaned, in her opinion, too much into our space. Because of her breed, she had inherited weaknesses, and half way through her eleventh year of life, her heart began to fail. I watched her health deteriorate like water down a slide. My own heart seemed to beat with hers. She could hardly walk, and had begun to refuse most of her food. Then, on a Saturday morning, she spotted a coyote sneaking into the yard where a cat was sleeping. Her old fierce nature took over and she chased the coyote off the hill, across a large pasture, and into the distance. It was to be her final hurrah. When she returned home she collapsed. For a week she struggled to hang on. I sat with her. I slept with my head beside her. I was terrified of losing her; but I was losing her. I knew she clung to life because of me. I knew she was worried that I could not handle her passing. Always the loyal friend, she did not want to be the cause of my despair. The morning she passed, I heard her heart take its final beat. For an hour I held her in my arms, unable to accept her death. All the while I sensed her presence in Spirit.

Her friend and companion was my other dog, a massive Great Dane mix. He had maintained vigil with me that week. He could not understand her demise, but when she died he left her side. I later found him sitting on the crest of a hill. I sat with him and put my arm around his big shoulders. He began to howl the most sorrowful cries I’d ever heard. I cried with him. Together we sat on that hillside and grieved until the next morning.

Grief is primal. Grief is necessary. Pretending we are okay after we lose a loved one is not only harmful, it is a stupid thing to do. I don’t care who says what, if you are experiencing loss, you must grieve. You must feel your feelings, and you must become very well acquainted with how you feel. It is that familiarity that will walk you back into the sunshine of your life, eventually.

We cannot live our life without losing much of what we love most along the way. That is our journey. That is how it works. But we can learn to be friends with our deepest emotions, and our journey will be better for the learning.

My Mind is a Well Kept Secret.

2011-05-13T15:19:00.004-06:00

I tend toward avoiding discussions of politics or religion because I am not well versed in either. I do vote, and I frequently wish I could vote often in the same election; but that's just me. I am highly spiritual; but have never followed any specific line of religious thinking. When I was a very young child, my grandfather told me "Pray to Whoever is listening." That kind of thinking always worked for me. A group of friends once got together and put me on the board of directors of one of the larger Native American centers in California. I never did figure out what I was supposed to do. I did help with all the holiday newsletters, and worked tirelessly at the center (when I could get away from my clinic), and I always worked at the powwows. Didn't educate me as to my job description, yet no one seemed to notice, and I was happily ensconced in the process. I grew up very near a Seventh Day Adventist Academy, in Corrales, New Mexico. My parents knew many of the people there. My brother's second wife was a student at the Academy. And some of my closest friends lived at the Academy. My connections there probably helped me into one of the best medical and health profession universities in the country (Loma Linda University). I was also accepted at Brigham Young University. Brigham Young is Mormon. I don't know anything about Mormons except that my ex-husband married one. Could not specifically say why two such prominent religious universities accepted a religion-ignorant kid into their schools. I was happy to have two to pick from, and did select Loma Linda, probably because I preferred the idea of California over Utah. I've always had friends who were highly devoted to their religions: Catholic, Seventh Day Adventist, Hindu, Buddhist, Jewish, Nazarene, Muslim, Baptist, Jehovah's Witness, and so on. I've been to all kinds of churches, mosques, synagogues. And I still could not argue any points about any of them. Am deeply spiritual, and don't believe you could find any gaps there. So what does all this have to do with anything? Truth is, I do know a lot about a few subjects. You could say, my mind is a well kept secret. But you'd never know this by waiting for me to join in a discussion about politics or religion. I will listen. I might even nod my head a few times, and appear to understand your points. But if you have quizzes afterwards, I'll be the one who left early.

Competition doesn't float my boat.

2011-04-18T13:03:00.004-06:00

Competition.
Competitiveness.
Not me. I’m not competitive and don’t have the competitiveness gene.

I first found out about my lack of interest in competition when I was in the fifth grade. I was tall, thin and could run like a deer. Our school coach figured this out watching me run circles around everyone when we played kickball, or baseball, or one of the other school sports that kids play. The coach divided us all up into groups to run against other groups. Before we were placed in groups, he clocked each of us on sprints, and he used a stop watch to monitor our time from get-ready-go to finish. He told me I was the fastest kid in school, which meant I could run faster than about four hundred kids. I thought it would be interesting to tell my family during dinner, but beyond that, I didn’t really think it was important. When our groups began racing other groups, the coach made the mistake of pairing me with my best friends. I wasn’t going to run out ahead of them, and I slowed enough we could all keep pace and finish together. The coach was furious. He made us run again. I did the same thing. He pulled me aside and asked what the heck I was doing. I told him. He then said, “You don’t have a competitive spirit.” I always remember that, because I didn’t want to be in competition with anyone, especially my friends.

I’ve carried this lack of a competitive gene around through my life, and have often been amused at how many people I’ve met who immediately launch into a “run for the roses” (metaphorically) about anything. Some people are so competitive, they will race through a grocery store to see who they can get ahead of at the check-out. My ex-husband was especially competitive. We had a monopoly game, which he bought, and which he brought out one night when we had some friends over for dinner. The four of us were having a good game, and the winning seemed to have more to do with the dice than anything else. I won. My ex was mad at me, and refused to play monopoly with me, ever again. It was just a game. Who won or lost did not matter to me. The simple joy and spirit of playing the game is what I enjoyed.

While a teenager, I was in a horrific accident, and all my days of running as fast as a deer ended. I spent a year reeducating myself in the art and skill of simply walking. Too many fractures, too many to ever heal properly. I miss running, but not because I could outrun everyone. I miss running because I loved to feel myself moving that fast through space. Before the accident, I was the best basketball player in my high school, according to my coach, Patricia Denton. I’d lacked the competitive edge, and the coach was always upset with me. I didn't particularly care for the game, and was glad for an excuse to never play basketball again, never be put into a position of having to be competitive.

Throughout my life I’ve done many things. A few things I do very, very well. Not because I set myself up in competition with anyone else, but because those things I really enjoy I tend to do very well. Am always sure there will be some who can do anything I do better. I don’t worry about it, and am happy for others who can do better than me.

Competitiveness is in our genes. I truly believe that.

(On an aside here, the competitive gene has nothing to do with the fight-or-flight response. People have made that mistake, and been the worse for the wear for doing so. Fight-or-flight is a brain chemistry reaction. A person who is calm and peaceful can also be your worst opponent if you pick a fight with them.)

I hope if you have the competitive gene that you do not expect your family, your friends, and especially your children, to share it. Everyone is not in competition. Some of us just like to keep pace. Perhaps that’s what we are. We are the pacers, and perhaps we are even the peacekeepers. Unless you pick a fight with us. And then we are the warriors.

Depression

2011-02-23T13:56:00.004-07:00

"Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness" and you know where you've heard that before. President's Day, a good day to spotlight depression. I'm going to post something about depression every day for a few days. Today's post will surprise many, but chronic depression takes its toll on your brain in a very bad way.
When depression lingers for months into years, the resulting effect is that our brain cells are damaged. Chronic depression can damage your brain.

If I were your therapist, the first thing I'd put on your schedule would be an eight week MBSR (mindfulness based stress reduction) workshop. These are available at most medical university hospitals, and hospitals that are affiliated with medical universities. They often have sliding scale fees for people with low income. The MBSR at UNMH (University of New Mexico Hospital) has been known to entirely wave that fee. Hope you will check into this.

You can learn, understand, and begin using the MBSR tools with Jon Kabat Zinn's cds for beginners. It is available from most larger online bookstores, such as amazon.

If you, or someone you know, is experiencing excess or prolonged sadness, take this assessment. The site will score it immediately after you complete it. Your scores are confidential. What do your scores mean? If you score between 10 and 15, you are mildly depressed. If you score between 16 and 25, you are moderately depressed. A score above 25 is significant, and you should see your doctor ASAP.
http://counsellingresource.com/quizzes/cesd/index.html

It's a fact, over time, depression takes its toll on your brain cells. I have found an online program which will help you assess how you are doing cognitively. This game is partnered from very reputable universities (Stanford, UCSF, Harvard, and Columbia). Also, it is FREE. Go to the website, create a free account, and you will be able to see how well your brain is working. This is NOT an IQ test. This is a cognitive training program, and I encourage you to set up your free account, which lasts for five days (after five days, there are some free exercises you can continue to work on). What will you learn? You are going to see a profile of your performance in areas such as memory, flexibility, speed, attention, problem solving. When you are depressed, your skill level in all these areas drops. The good news is, YOU can pick hobbies or tasks that will help you exercise these skill areas, and you can restore (and even improve) your cognitive abilities: http://www.lumosity.com/

It is my opinion, if you have the right tools, you can develop skills to walk yourself out of mild or moderate depression without medication. Your commitment must be to do the hard work; and doing it is the primary factor. Here is another effective tool for use in recovering from depression: http://www.createwritenow.com/journaling-for-health/

I am an occupational therapist, a counselor, and a much published author of both fiction and nonfiction. I believe in writing, and I believe in the benefit of proper journaling. One more website that I highly recommend follows. You can learn the lasting benefits of journaling by finding specific journal exercises, and I prefer those you can learn from Dr. James Pennebaker: http//www.utexas.edu/features/2005/writing/

Depression isn't something you can "talk" out of your life. Talk therapy has its value, but it won't walk you out of depression. This is a condition most people get themselves into because of their personality traits, their ways of dealing with self and others, their ways of thinking, and their behavior. You must change all of these to really walk yourself into more comfortable territory. Sorry, no quick fixes with this one. Having a coach is a good idea. A coach is someone who keeps you on track, guides you in the right direction, gives you homework, and knows what they are doing. Some therapists are a lot better at this than others. Can't help you pick one. You might ask others who've recovered from depression who they recommend. You need someone who deals more with how your brain works, than someone who jumps around in the theoretical arena. I wish you the best, and luck has nothing to do with it. It's hard work. If you want to be happier, you will do the hard work of getting there. Happiness will never be all the time, everyday. That's not realistic, but you can find a lot more tranquility and enjoyment in your life.

Valentine's Day can harm you all your life.

2011-02-09T13:02:00.003-07:00

What you don't know about Valentine's Day can cause you harm your whole life. This may not apply to you, or any experience in your life, but it applies to many. Throughout my elementary school years (first through sixth grade), my mother was our school nurse (one day a week). She was the first to recognize something unhealthy about Valentine's Day, and she alerted all the teachers. Am proud to say, my mother changed the way Valentine's Day was handled in Corrales Elementary, at least during the years she worked as the school nurse. Valentine's Day was a big event. University of New Mexico usually provided us with a spectacular play, which we watched from our cafeteria/gymnasium. You can imagine, the entire day was festive and fun, for most. I knew everyone, and always received more than my share of valentines. Some kids didn't receive more than two or three. I still recall the second grade, when our valentine box was opened by our teacher, Mrs. Baca, and she called us up to accept our cards. There were 22 in my second grade class. I received 24 cards. I had two boyfriends, Brian and Eric, who both sent me two valentines. Most of the other kids received at least 22 cards. My friend, Megan, also received 24. I don't remember who sent her the extra, but am sure they were also from boyfriends. Highlighted that day were Lynn and Ted's humiliation. Lynn received four cards. Ted received two cards. The process of the teacher calling our names, and our parading back and forth to the valentine box, created a spectacle of who got the most cards, and who was almost forgotten. Compassion and concern for others is not big on a second grader's mind, but I still remember being sad for Lynn and Ted. During recess prior to our heading off to watch our UNM theatrical event, I stopped by my mother's office. Mom knew all the children in the school. She provided their immunizations. She cured them of head lice. She checked them for diabetes, or fever, or any of a multitude of childhood ailments. She knew Lynn and Ted, and she knew their health issues prevented them from being popular because they seldom played on the playground. She also knew that to receive so few cards in front of all their classmates, who received many cards, was not only humiliating (even for a second grader), but that it was harmful to a child's self esteem. She told me to take my cards and share them with Lynn and Ted. I hurried off and did just that, and my mother scheduled a meeting with all the teachers. Every Valentine's Day thereafter, every child was to give every other child in their class a card. And the teachers were to make sure this happened. Sometimes the smallest events, such as a classroom celebration of a joyful holiday like Valentine's Day, can become a hurt inside a child that always remains a tender place in their heart many, many years later. Teachers need to understand how easily it is to foster a good healthy atmosphere for their pupils, and they should recognize when any normal school event creates a potential for harming the self esteem of any child.

Home Free!

2011-01-20T12:28:00.000-07:00

“Ya’ll let the tractor go for a drive by itself today?” My cousin, Bill, asked.
“Why would we do that?” My sister, Patsy, replied.
Hours earlier, Patsy and I were on our way to a neighbor’s farm, where we were dismantling a two story cabin chimney. We’d been working on the project during the weekends. The cabin was one hundred fifty years old, and the bricks were handmade. The farmer, who owned the cabin, promised us seven cents for each good brick we could salvage, and two cents for each half brick. When we worked on the bricks, we tied our long hair into pony tails, wore old threadbare jeans, long sleeve gingham shirts, and tennis shoes. My sister, who was almost seventeen, decided we looked like hillbillies in our work outfits. I was fourteen, and really didn’t care, as long as we progressed our stack of bricks toward some serious cash.
That particular Saturday morning we weren’t expecting relatives from Memphis. While the tractor crawled along Piney Top, a narrow country lane, we heard a vehicle approaching. Hidden by steep hills and sharp corners, we couldn’t see the car. It sounded suspiciously similar to Bobby Joe’s copper colored Plymouth Satellite, a muscle car with an engine that hummed through the forest roads like a lion.
“We gotta hide,” Patsy yelled. Bobby Joe was her boyfriend.
“Where?” I asked, noting dense forest on either side of the road, and less than a few feet of thick grass and brush alongside the shoulder. There was no place to hide the tractor.
“Behind a tree!” Patsy yelled. She jumped off the tractor and sprinted for the trees, disappearing.
“What do we do with the tractor?”
“Jump!” She screamed. “Bobby Joe will see you!”
Too confusing. I wasn’t driving the tractor. I sat on one of its rear tire fenders. It just moseyed along in a fairly straight direction. The approaching vehicle was almost over the hill. I dived off the tractor and headed in the direction where Patsy had vanished. The car had arrived and the driver obviously noted a driverless tractor. We heard doors opening. I risked a peek from behind the trees and saw my Uncle Roy. He took his hat off, shook his head, followed the tractor, crawled up on it, drove it over the hill, and parked it in a ditch. When he returned to the LTD, I heard my Aunt Nona ask how the tractor got there all by itself. My uncle was laughing hysterically. He climbed into the LTD, and they headed on to the family farm.
Patsy and I abandoned our posts behind the trees, flew back to the tractor, restarted it, and continued our route toward the cabin. I didn’t mention this new twist in the day. I figured Aunt Nona and Uncle Roy would tell Dad we’d left the tractor, ambling along unsupervised, and we’d be grounded for a year. Patsy didn’t say anything, either. One brick at a time, we worked. We had to climb an old apricot tree to reach the top layers of bricks, and it was dangerous. We took turns in the tree, because whoever worked on the ground occasionally got hit with falling debris, and it only seemed fair to share those work related injuries.
Late in the afternoon, after arriving at the farm and aiming the tractor up the long driveway, we could see Mom, Dad, Aunt Nona, and Uncle Roy, seated on the front porch, drinking iced tea. They didn’t sound angry, and weren’t paying much attention to our approach. Patsy ambled the tractor into its shed. Cousin Bill showed up with one of those I-know-it-was-you looks.
“Ya’ll let the tractor go for a drive by itself today?” Bill asked.
“Why would we do that?” Patsy replied.
I decided to cut to the chase, “Are we in trouble?”
“Home free,” Bill grinned, and walked away.

Ceremony of The Raven

2011-01-10T13:16:00.001-07:00

Friday afternoon. An intensity of energy drew me outside. I walked beyond the porch and onto the deck before I saw what invited my attention. Two elder ravens flew interference with a hawk. The hawk surveyed a large party of younger ravens soaring playfully in my lower pasture. The elders were a pair of parents I have seen around here for many years. Their activity, distracting a predator bird, is common to ravens. I’ve watched them do this much of my life, and I’ve never seen either the raven or the predator harmed. The hawk was similar in size, and appeared ready to depart, when suddenly it darted into one of the elders. My life seemed to stand still while I watched the magnificent creature begin falling from the sky. I could feel the flutters inside my chest, my heart literally skipping beats while I held my breath.
At first the old raven tried to glide downward, then its lifeless form simply dropped. I saw where its shiny black feathers lay in the cold winter grass, motionless. I wished for a miracle, like time taking a step backward. I wanted to see it jump to its feet and take to the heavens. Instead what happened next sent me toward the hillside where I dropped to the ground and sat in respectful silence. An audience of one, witness to this rare event.
The second elder flew first in small circles, then in larger circles, until it seemed to engulf the entire sky with its presence. The seven younger birds stopped their playful flight and joined the elder. This soaring continued long enough I felt dizzy from watching them, and I found myself having to breath more deeply. It was as if their airborne motion pulled the very oxygen from the air, or maybe it was their sadness.
Slowly, one by one, they began to land on the frozen earth where the dead raven rested. They hopped and walked around its small corpse. Their caws rose up in sharp piercing clips, and gradually settled into a long sorrowful noise. The hopping and walking ceased, and one by one they approached the still bird, until now they all remained quiet in an immensely peaceful circle around the object of their mourning. Obviously, emotion. Obviously, grief. Obviously, they payed their respects.
I’ve never witnessed a more serene, spiritually touching funeral.
I will never forget that afternoon.
It changed something deep inside my soul.
As suddenly as the tragedy struck, the party of ravens took to the sky all at once. They soared higher and higher, until they seemed determined to escape earth. Then, like tiny specks in the distant sky, they disappeared over the western horizon.
I was honored with a mysterious and very mystical invitation to this sacred ceremony of The Raven.

Plowing cornfields with the LTD

2010-11-24T14:43:00.005-07:00

“The radiator is wrapped in cornstalks,” Uncle said. He dropped to his knees in the driveway to better inspect his brand new LTD’s undercarriage.
Dad popped the LTD’s hood and raised his voice. “What’s all this?”
Uncle stood and they both surveyed the mess: cornstalks wedged tightly into every crevice of the car’s engine compartment.
“YOU KIDS NEED TO COME OUTSIDE,” Dad yelled.
“I ain’t goin’,” my cousin, Joy, said. She continued to sip her coffee.
“They figured out you plowed Mayfield’s cornfield with your dad’s new car,” my sister added helpfully.
“You didn’t tell me that field was comin’ up,” Joy said.
“You were going too fast.” I threw in my two cents.
Mom, Aunt and Grandmother were busy in the kitchen. Mom prepared a turkey for roasting. Aunt mixed cornbread, which would become stuffing. Grandmother rolled dough. If they did hear the commotion outside, they weren’t interested in anything unrelated to their feast preparations.
“We’re gonna get in big trouble,” my sister grumbled.
Joy kept sipping her coffee.
I slipped on my jacket and joined Uncle and Dad, who were still prying corn stalks from the LTD.
“Where’d you kids find these?” Dad asked. He was suppressing laughter. Uncle's new car looked like it had tractor duty.
“This car is only two weeks old.” Uncle's tone seemed strained, and his expression wasn’t a happy one.
I didn’t offer any explanations, but did join in, assisting with untangling stalks. It took almost an hour before we had all traces of the corn field removed from the LTD. I will never forget Uncle's despair and Dad’s efforts not to bust into loud laughter.
We were all spending Thanksgiving on the farm. My aunt and uncle, and my cousin, had driven out the evening before. Joy was 18. My sister was 16. I was 14.
All these years later, I still recall that as one of our best Thanksgivings. Perhaps it was made so because it was also our final family holiday before people splintered off into their own lives. Joy, my sister, and I were cousins who grew up as the best of friends. Joy had graduated high school, and found her first job working at Sears; but that evening we were still the triplet cousins. Joy borrowed her dad’s new car, and the three of us primped ourselves with Joy’s makeup collection until we resembled an advertisement for Revlon cosmetics. Giggling and full of ourselves, we jumped into the LTD and headed for Bolivar. Winter arrived early that year and Joy turned the volume up on both the heater and the LTD’s new 8-track stereo. Words spilled off the tracks: “Ready or not here I come, gee that used to be so fun ... apple, peaches, pumpkin pie, you were young and so was I ...” and “Keep the ball rollin’, keep the ball rollin’ ... on your mark get set ... keep the ball rollin’ right into your heart ...” tunes from Jay & The Techniques. We played those tracks over and over, as loud as we could stand the volume. Joy drove that LTD through those back country roads, out to Highway 18, into Bolivar. We rounded Joe’s drive-in half a dozen times. Eventually a fellow who’d recently returned from his tour in Vietnam showed up. Richard. He had a crush on me, and always teased me mercilessly. He talked me into going for a ride. Joy wasn’t happy, my sister just shrugged. I jumped into Richard’s muscle car and we raced off to explore our interests in each other. We were late returning to Joe’s drive-in. By the time we found the LTD cruising Bolivar, it was well past curfew. Joy was furious. She said I was too young to be sneaking off with some smart-ass soldier boy. Joy was probably the best versed cursor I ever knew. She had words that would shock a sailor ... and when she ran out of words, she just made some more up (a family tradition which always impressed the heck out of me). The more she cursed, the madder she got, until the LTD had left road mode and was flying low through the country roads en route back to the family farm. And that’s when it happened. We flew into a curve before Joy realized we were in a curve. She tore that new LTD out across a cornfield full of dry stalks. Instead of panicking, Joy’s curse vocabulary went ballistic, and she leaned on the accelerator like we could literally fly the car back to the highway. Eventually we did. A few dozen bushels of corn stalks were so deeply embedded under and up into the LTD, we didn’t even bother thinking about them. Joy killed the headlights as we approached the farm, and she let the LTD roll to a quiet stop in the yard. The three of us climbed out of Uncle's new car and never looked back. We removed our shoes and slipped into the basement, then tiptoed up the stairs, into the house. Everyone was sound asleep. We were home free.
Until that next morning when Uncle discovered his new LTD had plowed a corn field.

 

What you love

2010-11-17T19:20:00.002-07:00

If you read my stuff, you know I like to talk about love. I love lots of things, and lots of people. Started out like that. When I was very, very young, I had a big family. Mom and Dad, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, great grandparents. Very few are still living. I miss those who are gone. I mean I really, really miss them. Sometimes I especially miss some more than others. Today I miss my paternal grandmother. I'd give a year of what's left of my life to sit with her for another day. To talk and listen, to hear her voice, to enjoy her laughter. She was Eastern Cherokee, a Vincent, a Roll Indian. She was beautiful and intelligent. She was wise and funny. She had a hard life. She never complained. Grandmother was good at whatever she chose to do. When she wanted to shoot a rifle, she could hit whatever she aimed for. When she wanted to work a crossword puzzle, she could solve all the boxes correctly. When she wanted to get her opinions across, she could do so with grace and good manners. And when she was angry, she could chew up her opponent and spit them out before they knew what happened. She and I were similar in most ways, according to all my relatives, who nicknamed me Little Eula. My grandmother told me I was her favorite. She may have told my cousins they were her favorites, as well. Didn't matter to me. She and I were Eula and Little Eula. Of course, I gradually pulled up to match her height. Both of us stood five feet ten inches, thin, pronounced cheek bones, dark eyes, dark hair, ivory yellow skin. She died young, she was in her early sixties. My father dug out old photographs of Grandmother and when I saw them I was quite surprised. When I looked at her youthful pictures, I was looking at myself. I occasionally showed her youthful pictures to friends who knew me most of my life, and they always thought she was me. They could not explain the very old cars, or very odd clothing styles. I actually argued with one lifelong friend, who never did accept that Grandmother's pictures were not photographs of me. I was not long out of college when she died. But I will never forget that morning. At three a.m. I awoke to find her sitting on the edge of my bed. She told me she loved me. She told me to honor my Indian blood. She said it was my best blood. And then she disappeared. The phone rang. I picked it up. I heard my father's voice telling me Grandmother had died. I told Dad I knew. I told him she'd stopped by a few seconds earlier to see me before she began her transition journey. And I missed her like I would miss oxygen. Today I miss her. Grandmother was unconditional love. I loved her more than the sun and the moon. I miss her.

Heart Breakers

2010-11-10T13:45:00.002-07:00

Ever notice people who try to break your heart have a history of breaking hearts? Those people get a bag of empty when they try that nonsense on me. I'm a heart-break resistant variety. Learned early how people can be held hostage by others using invisible things called emotions. My brother's second wife, Rachel, was one of my favorite people; and she was also a portrait of life-lost to a broken heart. I was ten when she married my brother. She was seventeen, and he was eighteen. He'd already been married, but that only lasted a few months. He was trying again. Rachel was like a big sister. She braided my long hair, and showed me how to roll it up on curlers. She patiently taught me how to apply mascara without sticking the wand into my eye, and she helped me learn how to walk in high heels. None of this was for keeps, because my parents would never allow me to wear mascara, or high heels, at the age of ten. And Rachel wasn't in our family for keeps, either. My brother left her. He never told her he was leaving, he just up and disappeared. She remained in our home for almost six months, waiting, hoping, thinking he'd come back for her. He never did. She had their marriage annulled. Throughout the six months she lived at our house, I watched Rachel's torn world unfold as if agony were measured in teaspoons, and she intended to build a pyramid of pain, one teaspoon at a time. She often stared out the windows. Her eyes didn't really look at anything, they just sort of gazed toward the far-off galaxies, as if that would alert my brother and he'd remember he'd married her. I also remember how often she cried. She cried all the time. After school I'd talk her into accompanying me on my many after school horseback adventures. I'd saddle my brother's Quarter horse for Rachel, and I would ride bareback on one of our three ponies. We rode the bosques, we navigated the Rio Grande, we trailed up the West Mesa, we scaled sand dunes, we galloped through arroyos, and Rachel cried the entire time. My parents used to whisper so she would not hear them. They always worried her heart would never mend. I began to understand the definition of broken heart, and determined I'd never join that club. For Rachel's sake, I hoped her heart did mend. I don't know. Lost touch with her a very long time ago. But I did learn something from her ordeal. Allowing others to control you so totally that your life is empty and all that you see in front of your eyes is vacancy, that's just not for me. I don't mind saying, "That's heartbreaking," and I have been known to say, "That breaks my heart," but the truth is, I don't do that kind of pain for anyone. Life is too short. Who would want to navigate the Rio Grande on horseback in a daze? Not me!

Give me all your stuff, or else ...

2010-10-29T12:30:00.008-06:00

Don't have much, but do have a piece of property, a comfortably plain little home, a six year old car, and enough casual country clothes to fill a couple of average suitcases. My stuff isn't high end. Wouldn't buy up there even if I could afford it. My stuff isn't bargain basement. Spent too many years living there, and don't want to do that again. I was in a horrific accident, where my older sister was driving, a few weeks after my fifteenth birthday (a long time ago). My sister was almost seventeen, lacking experience as a driver to make a good split second decision when faced with a crisis on the highway. She drove us into a ditch. A gravel truck hit our car a few seconds later. She sustained a TBI (traumatic brain injury) and my legs were crushed. I did get back up again, and have navigated life with a limp (which gets worse when I'm tired). My sister never outgrew her need to forget the accident. Amnesia can be psychologically set in place when it serves a purpose. For some reason, it served her. She never accepted me as her real sister after our accident. She has continued this thinking all these years since. When my parents both died within the same year, she went on a campaign that I was responsible for their deaths. Dad had widely metastasized cancer. Mom had end stage cardiac failure. I bought a home for them to live in, nearby, close enough they could feel independent, but I could check in on them often. They were both sent into a hospice hospital by their doctors, where I sat beside their beds and talked to them every day until they passed away. She contacted family and friends and told them Dad never had cancer, and Mom did not have a failing heart. She told every one who would listen that they died because I talked their doctors into putting them into comas. Dad was never in a coma. Mom was never in a coma. They died peacefully in their sleep in hospice, visited by their doctors several times every day. My sister never came to say goodbye to Dad. She did arrive the day before Mom died, demanding Mom's rings. The hospice staff informed her that they'd been instructed by my mother to leave her rings alone until she passed away. The rings were Mom's connection to Dad. My sister and her husband had a fit. They yelled and screamed in the hospice hallway until the staff called security. I sat with a social worker and observed the entire scene. It was like something out of a movie about the most dysfunctional people you could ever meet. Blood is not thicker than water. Water sustains you. Blood can cripple your mind and your self esteem when that blood is crazy. She has lived in her delusions, and her husband supports her delusions. They live near Santa Fe in a mulitmillion dollar home on a large race horse ranch, complete with race horses, race track, and all the best of everything they want. The morning my father passed away, my sister tried to seize my mother's assets, demanded to know how much Mom had in the bank. My mother listened to the rants, then told my sister she required what little she had to live on. As soon as both my parents passed away, my sister and her husband demanded that I turn over all my possessions to them. I'm still trying to figure out how that makes sense. With that kind of logic, when they want a new car, they walk on the lot, pick the one they want, and demand title without paying for it? Life is too short to be held hostage by someone else's delusions.

Old and new

2010-10-21T14:36:00.002-06:00

My first year out as a therapist, I was working in a large hospital in San Bernardino, California. One of my patients asked me to help him walk outside. His balance wasn't good, and I knew I needed an aide to assist, but all the aides were busy. I had twenty minutes left of break time, and a busy afternoon schedule. I made the call and accompanied him while he slowly ambulated to the patio opposite physical therapy. We sat in the sunshine for ten minutes before heading back in, but I could tell he was going to need to sit half way down the corridor. The closest chairs were inside a staff lounge we were walking passed. Nurses occupied all but one, which I grabbed. A doctor was pouring coffee. He turned and barked for me to leave that chair alone because he was sitting there. I took it straight out of the lounge and helped my patient sit down. The tall silver haired physician could be heard bellowing and cussing in the lounge. He called me every name he could pull up, and his tirade ended with his telling the nurses I was an upstart who would soon be out of work. When he emerged from the lounge his expression changed. He asked me why I didn't tell him a patient needed the chair. His name was Robert Ballard, MD. He and I became great friends, and he often mentored me through the years that followed. Bob never missed an opportunity to tell people about the chair incident which launched our somewhat unique friendship. The hospital later added a memorial wing for him. Memories of specific moments in our lives emerge when we least expect them. I thought of this today, and don't know why. But seemed worth writing down. Old friends, new friends, they are all important in the eventual makeup of who we are as people.

Will there be a quiz at the end?

2010-10-01T07:23:00.000-06:00

When I was young I had some issues about rules. Mostly, I didn't follow them. But life has a way of making sure what you experience along the way becomes a lesson. It's easy: you learn from what you do and don't do, or you keep getting the opportunity to run that lesson through as often as it takes. Where it counts, I am sorry to say, I've been a slow learner, an oft repeater, and a serial idiot. When things seriously count, I eventually pass the quiz. In a bit of fairness to myself, I do have a few stellar qualities. I am a loyal steadfast dependable friend. Always have been. Always will be. In relationships with men, not so much. Don't ask me why. Have known some of the best in that group, and have certainly known a few of the worst. Youthful years, not sure they should be included, because we all know we enter a period of biologically measurable hormone induced brain affected insanity shortly after puberty hits, and it lasts until we crawl into our early twenties with such sleep deprivation that we could essentially be classified as an experiment. Was married once, but walked down the aisle and accepted a ring while I was entirely entwined with another man (who incidentally had the same first name as my new husband). Paul and Paul. Learned to love the husband. Never learned how to un-love the other one. Years later, when the other one got married, he called me the night before his wedding. He picked me up at the curbside of my home at almost midnight. We drove from Loma Linda, California to the west side of Los Angeles. We talked. We cried. We asked questions of each other that were never answered. And we never stopped loving each other. We set our trains on different tracks, and when we started our engines, accumulated baggage cars, and kept our promises to those we made promises to, we drove away from each other forever. Don't know what he discovered about life, but I have found it to always be a test. Everything you think, do or say is a lesson. I've reached my half century mark, and wonder about all the stuff I did right, all the stuff I did wrong, and the few things I fell flat on my face with before I knew I was falling. Now I can look in my rearview mirror and I know it's behind me. I hope I'm as valuable to those I've known and loved (all of them) as they have been, and still are, to me. I hope when I finish my life that I have learned all these lessons. I often wonder if there will be a quiz at the end. If there is, I can say this: I will ace that quiz.

Inoculations against everything!

2010-09-17T17:38:00.002-06:00

Went to Walgreens last week to get a flu shot. It's really a lot like going to the doctor's office. You fill out papers. They have you sit down. They call you up to fill out some more papers. You sit down again. They tell you it will be about five minutes. Forty-five minutes later the pharmacist shows up. By then, five more people have showed up. The pharmacist pops out and lines you all up by appointment order, which at Walgreens means who got there first. Then you get your vaccine and a Band Aide, and they ask you to shop for about ten minutes before leaving the store (in case you have a reaction, like passing out, I guess). It was quite interesting to me. Especially the second page of stuff you fill out. There is a page long list of things they (Walgreens) will inoculate you for. My imagination gets a little crazy with things like this. I began thinking how cool it would be if I could be vaccinated against unhappiness. Or wrinkles. Or arthritis. Or toothache. Or upsets. Or upset stomach. Or calories. Or balancing my check book incorrectly. Or forgetfulness. Or taxes. I'll stop and you can let your imagination take over. Because it isn't that far fetched. If you are old enough to remember when doctors said there were no cures for the flu, then you know anything is possible in the future. Doubt I'll still be around when Walgreens has a vaccine against paying taxes, but hey, anything's possible.

Class, today, is around the water dish.

2010-08-19T08:25:00.001-06:00

KITTENS. Cute as little buttons. Cuddly as teddy bears. These are ranch kittens. Ranch momma is a gray stripe, petite and calm. Ranch poppa is a satin black panther with claws like a bear and an attitude equal. A cat of his stature I have never seen before. One of his kittens is his duplicate. Too busy to eat kitten chow, too busy to sit while momma teaches lessons. Trees are for climbing, he tells his momma. His poppa sits proud, surveying the yard, ready to chase away any thing that threatens his little family. This morning the lesson is how to drink water from a tray. Momma sits patiently beside the tray, tasting the water, although she is not thirsty. She waits for her kittens to gather beside her. Three of them quickly join her, and watch while she samples the water. The kitten nearest her touches its nose to the water, and then looks up at momma. The other two wobble around the water tray, touching their noses to the water. Momma is tolerant of time. She keeps this up for almost thirty minutes. She knows they will learn thirst is quenched by water from this tray. Once, one of the kittens almost samples the water, but a large blue jay lights on a branch in a nearby tree, startling them. They stop watching momma, and put water tasting on hold. Poppa stretches his large self and yawns, then ambles in the direction of the offending blue jay. The bird takes flight and disappears. Momma tries again to begin their water lesson, but it is too late. The tree climbing kitten arrives tumbling, smashing into its siblings, destroying class time. That’s okay. Momma knows lessons and learning are part of their youth, but so is play.

If looks could kill

2010-08-13T15:27:00.007-06:00

Those signs above the "quick check" lanes at the grocery store read "20 items or less". I can read. I can also see. And today I could see there were six and seven people deep in all the other check out lanes. The "quick" lanes had three cashiers, all standing around gossiping because they had no customers. I surveyed the overloaded baskets belonging to all the people in the regular lines. I counted my "stuff". I had 29 items, ten of which were the same thing. I thought, okay, I've got ten of the same thing, so that rings up as one (times ten). Bingo. I pushed my cart into the "quick" checkout. The cashier stopped visiting and returned to her counter. She glanced at my basket, then made a point to frown at me. It was a very good frown. I've seen better, but she had frowns down to a science. I'd say this particular frown was the one she gets when people who have more than 20 items use her speedy lane. Her frown made me step back and look around. There weren't any people at the other two quick lanes. I was the only one. It wasn't like I was clogging up a long line of people with one or two or ten items. I was it. Just me and my 29 items. She kept frowning. Her frown turned into a glare. I tried not to look at her while I got all my stuff on the counter so she could ring everything up ... all 29 things. "Ninety-eight dollars," she barked. And then her face contorted back into what was now a grimacing, disapproving, if-looks-could-kill, frown. I started to say something, fumbled for my pen, dropped my debit card, and wondered if humor would soften up her frown, which now seemed fixed like pig-iron across her face. I shook my head. She was not going to make any exceptions in her lane-for-fast-checkout. I swiped my card and collected my sacks into my cart, and waited for the receipt. There is a number on the receipt that shows how many items you've purchased. My receipt number was 29. The cashier grabbed a pen and slammed my receipt down on the counter and circled that number. She circled the number "29 items" so viciously, the receipt tore. While exiting the store, noting there were still no other customers in the quick checkout lanes, I had one thought. I was glad that particular cashier wasn't a judge. I think she'd be the first judge who sentenced people to death for speeding. In fact, I'm sure of it.

Trains

2010-08-10T15:23:00.002-06:00

I like trains. A lot! Trains remind me of everything. If I'm feeling melancholy, trains stir me into wishful thoughts about the way things are, the way they were, they way they might have been. If I'm in a goofy silly mood, trains pull back memories when circuses transported the animals on train cars, and I would fantasize that I'd follow those trains, wait for them to stop somewhere, anywhere, and I'd let out all the animals, and there'd actually be a better place for them ... at least there always was in my imagination. If I'm restless, trains pick me up and carry me across deserts, mountains, valleys, towns, cities, parks, rivers, and streams. I've ridden on trains. All types and kinds. Trains with no windows. Trains with satin chairs. Trains with metal benches. Trains that traveled so fast, scenery was but a blur. Trains that had to be attached to cables for descent down steep grades. Trains that let you sit on top. Trains that let you sit in the caboose. I have taken monorails and subways. I once stood beside the Orient Express in Istanbul and reached out to run my hand along it's smooth exterior. That occasion sent me back to Agatha's "Murder on the Orient Express," which I've read so often I know it by memory. The story was about the train, and all the stuff which happened was just an excuse to keep the train in the spotlight. It was, and still is, one of the coolest trains in the world. Of course, it's hard to imagine cooler looking trains than the old steamers that run from Northern New Mexico into Southern Colorado. Those are probably even cooler than the Orient. But, I guess it depends on my mood. If I'm reflecting, catch me on the steamers. If I'm feeling mysterious, let's ride the Orient.

Ups and downs.

2010-07-28T14:19:00.004-06:00

During those years when my name was on the door to my clinic, a question I was asked more than most other questions was: What is the difference between sanity and insanity? I usually told them my pay-grade didn't qualify me to answer that. Have revisited the question recently because a person I've known for some years asked me what the difference is between a healthy mind, and an unhealthy mind. I was considering responding as I had in the past, thus avoiding a discussion that often leads people into a galaxy of more questions. (If I'd been an enthusiast about questions, I'd have been a teacher.) However, realizing the person was suffering, has been suffering, for a few years, I worked at a reply which made sense to me, and might clarify something for this person. I said mental health exists in degrees. Ruling out brain chemistry or other biological factors (regardless of onset), we all have mental health ups and downs from moment to moment, hour to hour, day to day. The difference between sanity and insanity, or healthy mental states and poor mental states might be as simple as how satisfactorily we can transform the low ends into the high ends, the negative into the positive. For instance, if a person is consumed with anger, or delusion, or addiction, or greed, etc, that person is experiencing the low end of mental health. When the person learns how to change, or shift, or transform these unhealthy conditions into other states, such as calmness, contentment, gratitude, joy, happiness, etc, then that ability to change is what makes the difference. For instance, much has been made of anger and anger management in recent decades. Science has proven that people with serious anger issues can learn to transform those issues into acceptable social behavior, and that is only possible through a learning of shifting how a person thinks about those things that trigger out of control anger. This is only one example. Depression (which this person is certainly experiencing) is a huge problem all over the world, and is, in my opinion, the most disabling mental health issue of our time. Depression is a mental state at the low end of the gradient. Science, more so in the past ten years, has shown that we can usually rise above our depression, regardless how severe, by learning how to change our thoughts, and implement different responses, to our daily life activities. I then told this person that when an individual finds themselves completely unable to change, to shift, to transform what is an unhealthy mental state (doesn't feel good), they are probably experiencing more chaos and rigidity in their life, moment to moment, hour to hour, day to day, and that they need to get help. I don't know if my answer made sense. I don't know if it helped. I do know that our lives are bombarded with external examples of chaos and rigidity (such as driving on most freeways) probably more now that ever before. Because of this, I wish all schools included mandatory classes in mental health, for kids of all ages, so that they could learn these very important skills, and always have the necessary tools of knowledge, to transform what feels like the low end of mental health into what feels like the high end of mental health. How do we know we've reached the high end? We feel content and calm. We feel love, joy and compassion. We know that we feel good. Perhaps the answer is simple. If we feel good, we are at the high end of mental health. When we feel bad, we are slipping. A good tool is to simply recognize, and then begin the work of changing what doesn't feel good into what feels healthy.

The Young Man Who Builds Beautiful Things.

2010-07-22T17:24:00.003-06:00

It has been a rare privilege to know a young man who builds beautiful things. Three years ago, I needed a trench dug across my yard. I hired Kenny, who worked in the hottest July midday sun and never complained. Home from college for the summer, Kenny finished digging the trench, and proceeded to work the entire summer on my ranch. He painted a workshop. He painted a carport. He painted trim around the house. Typically uninteresting summer work for a college kid. Things changed dramatically when I wanted some tree roots removed, and needed something to brighten up an area near my office door. Kenny came up with the idea of trimming the low branches, leveling the ground, arranging flagstone rock, paver bricks, and filling in between with small gravel. When he finished his project I was stunned. Kenny has a true artist's eye. It was simply beautiful. I decided to get out of his way and let him do similar yard art projects around the ranch house. Every task looked a bit nicer, and I recognized Kenny was like a painter who got better with each new canvas.

Summer came to a close and Kenny headed back to school. When the new year arrived, I left word with Kenny's parents in late spring. If he was interested in summer work on the ranch, I'd be happy to hire him again. This time I felt a bit sad, because what I mostly needed was a fence which went nowhere, not a very creative project. I'll never forget Kenny's interest in the new yard project. He went home and drew several ideas. I was impressed with them all. Yet, Kenny was not pleased. From past experience, I knew I needed to keep my ideas out of his plans. Whatever he built would be beautiful. Sure enough, it was. My fence going nowhere is constructed out of old barnwood. There are pink boards, a red board, a blue board, some faded yellow boards, and assorted widths on most of the boards. The top of the fence is uneven, as all the boards have different lengths. Kenny threw in an angle, which makes the fence appear to have a destination. Every visitor here is so impressed with this old barnwood fence. One friend asked where she could order a fence just like it. I told her it was a unique piece of yard art, and could not be duplicated.

The following summer, I had a special assignment. My front yard needed a full face lift. I left the entire design up to him. Everything seemed to present delays, including Kenny's gray pony, Judy, breaking down. Judy isn't a live pony, she's Kenny's little gray truck. In the end, all things worked out, Judy is road worthy again, and my front yard is decorated with the most original and beautiful patio imaginable. It winds around the deck landing, is bordered with red brick pavers, and the center includes sand and multi-shaped flagstone. I believe it was inspired by the ancient spirits who live on this ranch in Anasazi country. Obviously, the enormously talented ancient potters and ceramicists are impressed with Kenny, too. The patio feels blessed by these ten thousand year old spirits.

Kenny is a brilliant young man. He will probably take his undergraduate degrees and post graduate degrees, and work somewhere like the State Department where people will appreciate his talent for understanding history (his major). And I imagine as the years pass, Kenny will occasionally recall the hot summer days in Abo, New Mexico, when he worked on my little ranch. I hope he remembers how he turned rocks and bricks and sand and dirt and old barnwood into objects of art smack dab in the middle of ancient Anasazi ruins.

Indeed, I have been privileged to know Kenny Aquilar, the young man who builds beautiful things.

Raccoons and monkeys and Memphis has more fun!

2010-06-27T14:19:00.002-06:00

About ten years ago while driving through Memphis, all traffic heading west stopped. I passed through Memphis a couple times every year, and traffic never came to a standstill on Parkway. I figured there must be an accident. Noting the other drivers were getting out of their cars and walking around visiting, I decided to join them. Most of us had our morning coffee. One lady had a box of donuts, which she opened and shared. You gotta know Memphis. This is typical southern hospitality. While we all stood around and got to know each other's business, a motorcycle cop approached, weaving through the cars and people. A man held out his hand and the cop pulled up to our circle of curiosity. We asked him what the holdup was, and the cop said five monkeys absconded from the Overton Park Zoo, which was about a block away. He said they had carried their breakfast with them, which was a bucket filled with apples and bananas. He said they -- the monkeys -- were hiding in the trees along Parkway, pelting cars with the fruit. The image filled my head and I thought I would laugh until my sides cracked. Everyone was laughing. The poor cop didn't think it was funny. He left us and resumed weaving through the parked traffic. Within a short while, the fruit wielding monkeys were rounded up and returned to Overton Park. I got back into my car, winded around Overton, passed St. Jude's Hospital, jumped on the bridge over the Mississippi, and left Memphis in the rearview mirror. But I always felt bad for those monkeys. Something in me wished they could have caught a ride on a freight train with their little bucket of fruit and escaped safely into the hill country. But Memphis seems to have a lot of unruly animals, even today. I heard that a raccoon, described as "acrobatic and mean-spirited," climbed into a substation, where it intentionally and willfully tore out wires which carried power to more than 8000 Memphians. I know it's terribly hot and humid in Memphis, and I'm sure people were miserable without their air conditioners. I'm sorry, really I am, but I cannot stop laughing. Hope the raccoon scurried off safely, maybe hopped on a train and got out of town.

All kids have brain damage.

2010-06-19T15:51:00.002-06:00

One of my favorite funny people (Bill Cosby) said this, "All children have brain damage." When I think of a particular summer during my childhood, I absolutely have to agree. That was the summer of dust devil experimentation. The one friend who was particularly studious during every school year, and who I knew I could count on to help me with this experiment, was my neighbor, Annie. School had just let out and our summer vacation was underway. Annie and I shared our book club buys, which meant her mother let her buy some paperback novels each month, and my mother let me buy some. We read what we got, then traded, which gave us the handsome sizable sum of twice as many paperback novels every month. We both had a preference for mysteries, and that worked, too. We'd put our first order for books in the mail, and were lounging on the lawn at my house, trying to figure out what the cloud formations reminded us of when a huge dust devil whipped across the field and headed straight for our location. Annie jumped up and started to run. I yelled at her to stay put. I had the impression, from watching the size of this duster, that we might get airborne for a few seconds. After all, we were little kids, and the duster was whipping a good slice of real estate while it made a bee line toward us. Annie didn't like the idea, but I was one year older, and very persuasive. I told her, while the duster kept approaching, that we might learn how to fly using dust devil wind power. Annie liked science, and the concept must've persuaded her, because by the time the duster arrived, we'd both grabbed our little shirts and stretched them as much as possible to create wings. It was an all time chaotic moment. The twirling wind contained every imaginable piece of debris: twigs, branches, tumbleweeds, newspapers, paper cups, and a ton of gritty dirt. Basically, flying garbage. It tossed us this way and that, and I could swear it picked us off our feet because by the time it moved out across our horse pasture, we had tumbled across the lawn into my mother's rose bushes. Annie took the worst of rose bush thorns, which had ripped her clothes and shredded her skin. My clothes and skin were still intact, but my long hair was matted into tangles so severe, I feared my hair would be shorter after my mother inspected it.

But we survived! And thus began our summer of research. We built a club house in one of the culverts near the Rio Grande. We stocked it with candles and matches, a few gallons of Kool-Aide, pencils, and our notebooks where we charted all our dust devil theories. Because summers in Corrales always included many dozens of dust devils, we had ample opportunities to study them. What we learned: You cannot fly inside a dust devil; you will need a large box of Band Aides; your eyes will get sand blasted; your clothes will be ruined; long hair must be kept tight in a ponytail; and the fun and excitement is equally intense whether the dusters are mild or mini-tornados. I don't know what became of our dust devil theories, which we carefully charted and documented for all the world to see. But I do know we had about as much fun as is humanly possible. Thinking back, I believe all kids must have some degree of brain damage to entertain such absurd ideas.

Make amends

2010-06-11T15:34:00.002-06:00

I attended a social function last weekend which included a large assortment of people. I knew most of them quite well. A few I'd never met. Two people in particular I have a poor history with. The first person made some very slanderous false remarks about me to other people in my community many years ago. Prior to my learning about her entirely inexcusable behavior, for which there was simply no motive, I'd considered her a friend. The day I learned of her false and damaging remarks, I called her. She did not answer her telephone, and I left a brief but clear message, and asked that she return my call. I gave her opportunity to save grace, to acknowledge wrongdoing, to make amends. She never returned my call. I still do not know what her motives were, and I have long since gotten past caring. She lives with her internal makeup, and whatever causes her to behave so badly, these are demons she must wrestle with on a daily basis. People like that don't change until they begin the long and difficult process of making amends to those they have attempted to harm. An apology, an admission of guilt, these are beginnings. I've never received either from her. The second person was not a friend to me, but was friendly with some of my casual friends. I'd met her several times at small dinner gatherings, and beyond that, I did not know her, nor did she know me. I discovered, after numerous people confided this to me, that she was actually committing a form of fairly serious medical insurance fraud. Because I was one of the founders of the organization where she worked, I was interested in discovering whether what I was hearing was true, or false. I learned the information was absolutely true. I confronted the woman, I told her what I was aware of, and I encouraged her to make amends in the ways most appropriate to her actions and behavior. She did neither, and was soon afterwards invited to find another job. Her outrage was never at herself. Her outrage was later vented toward all who found her out. Sadly, I was reminded in the seeing of both these women, that they have not changed after all these years. They continue to blame others for any setbacks they encounter in their lives. Funny, but most of us learn these lessons in grade school. They are called playground rules. Treat others as you would have them treat you; and when you are wrong, make amends. We all can recall the few kids who simply could not or would not play fair. They are the ones who grew up and turned into people like these particular women.

Keep it to yourself

2010-06-09T15:57:00.002-06:00

When people tell me they don't know their own mind, I usually tell them they should probably keep it to themselves until they get acquainted. All silly responses aside, do you know your own mind? Probably not as well as you think. It actually takes practice, and it takes daily attention to our awareness of self, of others, of feelings, of internal body, of external body, of surroundings, and so on, to know our own mind. Think about this for a few minutes. Sit still, pay attention to your breathing. Count in breath, out breath. Focus on breathing. And now ask yourself what you just did. You were getting acquainted with an aspect of your internal body. That completed, here's another thing to think about. What did you just think? There, that thought. The one right there. Get a pencil and paper and write it down. Read what you wrote. That is your thought. It was generated in your brain and came out of your mind, and you are the only one who is responsible for whatever it is. Don't like it? Change it. Change your mind. Feelings are similar. Spot a really intense emotion you had today. If the emotion is negative, such as anger, write it down. Write: anger. Now, write down where you were, what was happening, what was said, what you were thinking. Pretty heavy stuff, isn't it? Because the truth is, all you have to do to take your mind chemistry right back to a time/place/incident is to put the feelings from whatever back in your immediate awareness. Don't like that feeling? It's your mind, change it by thinking about something else. When you focus your mind on something else, your brain will create chemistry for those thoughts and feelings. I am a ruminator. Ruminating is a terrible thing to do with a perfectly good brain. Ruminating is a tool we use to run ourselves through stuff that we did not appreciate, and we do it over and over and over, until we recognize what we are doing, and then we can stop it. For instance, when my favorite dog died a few years ago, I ruminated for months. I thought about the last painful week of her life. I thought about how sad she was. I thought about how much effort she gave to smile at me, and try to wag her tail stub (she was a rottweiler and did not really have much of a tail). I thought about her big brown eyes, and how much I missed her accompanying me on walks about the ranch. I thought, and thought, and kept myself in such a torn up state of sad, unhappy melancholy, my heart remained broken for over a year. I did it to myself. I ruminated. Trouble was, I knew my own mind, and I knew I was doing it. But I did not pull in self discipline and stop. I was sad, and I wanted to be sad, because in some odd way it seemed like my adored pet would remain with me as long as I didn't stop missing her. Eventually I got on with taking care of other pets, and people, and my ranch, and myself. And I still miss that dog terribly, but these days when I begin to miss her, I allow only happy thoughts to enter my mind. So, you see, we can know our own minds, but it takes a lot of practice. And we can change our minds, too. That takes even more practice.

Interpersonal relationships

2010-05-08T15:06:00.004-06:00

Let me warn you before you read further, this is about the science behind relationships. If your brain is in the mood for comedy or light satire, etcetera, you can quit reading now. Okay, with that disclaimer out of the way, let's get started. Relationships exist between anyone who encounters another person. Irony of this is that the same science which studies long term relationships equally applies to the short term type. Research, functional MRI's, old fashioned EEG's, and more sophisticated stuff like single photon emission computed tomography studies are the new scientific frontiers into what happens inside our heads during any variety of interactions with other people. For example, a stranger on the roadway cuts you off. Your internal biology goes to work releasing chemical stimulants into your system. Some of these are adrenaline, sodium lactate and cortisol. You are now feeling anxiety and stress. If you get angry and hang on to that emotion, your biology will keep pumping more stuff that will keep you revved up. Pretty soon you feel like a pressure cooker. You might carry your upset home and share all those uncomfortable feelings with someone else ... and you will most likely cause the recipient(s) to then begin feeling the same internal biological processes. Now everyone is angry. It's all a circle, and for some reason, we share our uncomfortable emotions more quickly and more often, which just keeps the circle in motion. No wonder friendships fail, relatives abandon each other, marriages fail, and relationships in general suffer. We are unwittingly allowing our own internal biology to wreck us. The proof is in the science, and science is showing that meditation helps, mindful thinking helps, yoga helps, laughter helps, interpersonal skill building helps, and so on. Studies also show we are now alive during an era of history that people are more compassionate for each other, across the board, than we've ever been before. With so many high tech weapons which could wipe out our world, that's good to know, which means people are utilizing meditation, mindful thinking, yoga, humor/laughter, and interpersonal skill building, etc. If you are like me, you now want to know what you can do to make your own life easier, happier, and help maintain the relationships you already have. Four things come quickly to mind that you must STOP doing: Having contempt for another; directly criticizing another; stonewalling others (not allowing open communication); and finally, defensiveness. Why these four? Because research has shown over and over again, these are the four primary elements which destroy relationships.

Simple things you can try:
Be generous.
Be compassionate.
Smile more often.

If you remember these, you are probably a writer ...

2010-05-04T09:29:00.004-06:00

The names and faces of your grade school teachers.
First grade, Mrs. McCarthy. She was in her fifties, wore her hair short, wore dresses that almost touched her ankles, and she resembled the stereotypical grandmother. I loved her, even when she tied my left hand to the chair to encourage me to use my right hand. She did not encourage my ambidextrous nature. But that's okay, I used both hands equally at home. And she did encourage my creativity. She was also a hugger. Her class full of first graders never left at the end of the day without a hug.
Second grade, Mrs. Baca. She was in her forties, wore her very short salt and pepper hair like a Marine, was as strict as any military sergeant, and had a voice that would wake anyone in a coma. She did not allow talking in the classroom, unless it was with her permission. To do so could encourage time sitting in the corner. I sat in the corner more than my share of the time.
Third grade, Mrs. Fry. She was in her early twenties, wore her chestnut hair in a very stylish cut, always wore big colorful necklaces with matching earrings, dressed very much like Samantha on the television show, Bewitched, and she always wore high heels. My mother was the school nurse, and for some reason, Mrs. Fry thought that gave me privileges. I probably took enormous advantage of those privileges. One was leaving class to get a drink of water. I enjoyed that time as it allowed me to walk up and down the hallway, feeling quite full of freedom to roam about. She loved to laugh, and our classroom was always cheerful.
Fourth grade, Mrs. Mathews. She was in her forties. Her hair was very, very black, and she wore it in curls so tight against her head, they seemed to be part of her head. She wore straight dark skirts, white blouses and cardigan sweaters. The only color in her attire was a very dark red lipstick, which was as red as her hair was black. Almost as strict as Mrs. Baca, but not quite. Her favorite subject was English, and we spent more time practicing grammar and punctuation than most English scholars.
Fifth grade, Ms. Carlson. She was in her twenties, and was also attending UNM evenings to earn her master's degree. She dressed in full pleated skirts, always wore loafers, and she reminded me of my cousin, who also attended UNM at the time. Her hair was blonde, short, and always a bit fluffy. My mother invited her to our home for Thanksgiving, and I was mortified. But she showed up with little gifts, enjoyed our country home, and allowed my parents to take her on a walking tour around our farm. The next week she asked me to draw a portrait of our principal. I never could understand how Thanksgiving at my house required me to draw our principal's portrait.
Sixth grade, Dr. Zerwer. But she let us call her Mrs. Zerwer, because we never quite caught on to how a doctor was also our teacher. She was in her late forties with long dark hair which she wore up. Her fashion sense impressed even a bunch of sixth graders. Always colorful, her dresses and shawls were very exotic, and her shoes always matched her many colorful costumes. In the jewelry department, it seemed she possessed more silver and turquoise than Old Town, and she always wore an abundance of jewelry. That year, our sixth grade could not find a teacher, and we went through numerous substitutes. When Dr. Zerwer was ready to leave and make room for the next substitute, the whole class broke into fits of crying. I think she felt very sad for us, because she stayed and saw us through the school year. We read from college readers, took many trips to UNM, had fascinating speakers, and generally skipped sixth grade. Dr. Zerwer took us right into the real world. She was my favorite teacher.

Picking cherries

2010-05-01T14:27:00.003-06:00

When I was in college, I was a poster child for a poor starving student. Money was scarce, and when I had enough to count, I stocked up on staples like peanut butter, honey, coffee, and bread. Often on weekends, if we weren't buried in studies, a handful of my classmates would show up at my door, we'd pool our pennies for fuel in my car, and we'd head off for an adventure. One particular Saturday morning it was suggested we go to Cherry Valley. Cherry Valley is on the eastern foothills slope of the Big Bear mountain in San Bernardino County, California. They had orchards of huge sweet bing cherries, and some of the orchards allowed people to pick their own. When you arrived at the orchard, you were provided a small brown sack, and you could fill the bag with as many cherries as it would hold. We filled our little sacks, the sacks were weighed as we left the orchard, and we paid according to what our sacks weighed. When we climbed back into my car, one member of the group stated she was no longer interested in stopping for lunch. We asked why. She stated simply, "They weigh the sacks, not the people. I ate at least a pound of cherries." The rest of us laughed so hard, we thought our sides would split. I always wondered why none of the rest of us thought of sampling a few handfuls while we picked cherries to fill our sacks. Don't know why I thought about that today, but it just came to mind, and I found myself overtaken by the hilarity of that afternoon. No, the orchard owners never thought to weigh the people.

When a lie is really a lie

2010-04-16T14:17:00.003-06:00

I am not much for movies, or for golf. But I have always enjoyed Sandra Bullock's movies, and I admit suffering through a few golf games while my mother was alive because she really enjoyed watching them. She especially enjoyed Tiger Woods. I'm glad she never saw his spiral from grace; and I am sad to see what Sandra Bullock's husband really looks like, and what that behavior has done to her.
What probably amazes me more than anything is that both Woods and James (Bullock's soon to be ex) ran to rehabilitation clinics in an effort to avoid the obvious. What's that all about? Why not simply step forward and admit where you went wrong? Why hide behind a clinic and a laundry list of issues? I'm not against a person having issues. People's issues have been a portion of my bread and butter as a therapist and counselor. And I certainly don't make small of clinics. I spent my professional career working in hospitals and clinics. What truly disturbs me is that we seem to be living in an age of "issues made me do it". If you rob a bank do you get to tell the cops that it wasn't your fault because you had some issues? If you get a DWI can you simply tell the prosecutors that issues made you drive under the influence.
Last summer I discovered my boyfriend had "issues" and I had to put up with months of listening to all those "issues". Seems the biggest issue was I wasn't available. Well, let's look at that. I had the responsibility of caring for two dying parents. My father had terminal cancer, and he died. My mother had a broken heart, which I could not do anything about. And then her heart failed, and she died. Depression overwhelmed me. I was not available to myself. After several months of pure bewilderment, I began intensive depression therapy. It worked, but it was the hardest work I've ever had to do. There were long spells of misplaced emotions, and even longer spells of feeling lost and alone. Much of the time I was missing in action. Or missing from action. Or simply missing.
Discovering, after all that stuff, that your trusted partner isn't trustworthy, and isn't "your" partner, well that's a whole new game no one wants to play. The road ahead has two possibilities. Take the single route. Or roll up your sleeves, get a big shovel for all those issues you're going to have to sift and sort through, and stay together.
Neither is easy. But it's a lot easier than watching the offender running off to a clinic where all those "issues" become symptoms which require medication and treatment. I don't buy that.
If you tell a lie, just admit, you told a lie. You don't need a doctor, or a clinic. You need to just get real.

Easter Eggs?

2010-04-02T13:32:00.003-06:00

I remember the oddest things about Easter. I was born during the Easter holiday, and Easter always reminds of that. My mother believed in Easter bonnets, and could sew the cutest bonnets for me to wear. I never did enjoy wearing them. We always had huge Easter egg hunt parties at our house in Corrales. All the neighbor children attended these. My mother baked a big chocolate cake with coconut icing. Dad cranked a half gallon of homemade ice cream to put on the cake. We all took part in coloring and boiling the eggs. Mom and a few neighbors hid them. Our border collie always found most of the eggs and ate them, which resulted in Mom making our poor dog take Pepto-bismol. Once a neighbor showed up dressed like a rabbit, carrying a basket filled with peanut M & M's. I was about five years old, and did not realize it was our neighbor. The first time I watched the old rerun of the Jimmy Stewart movie about the giant rabbit (Harvey), it reminded me of the neighbor and the basket of M & M's. To this day I cannot hear the word "Harvey" without first thinking about the neighbor in the rabbit costume, and then thinking about Jimmy Stewart's giant rabbit friend. What does all this have to do with anything? Not sure. But it did get me to wondering how much smarter I could be if I did not waste all the space in my brain to recall silly things like this, and instead used all that space to do something noble and wonderful, like cure cancer, or bring about world peace.

Snow Walking

2010-03-20T12:57:00.004-06:00

Snow walking was once a favorite winter activity. When snows would blanket the ground enough that good boots were required, I'd suit up in warm attire and head out with my best friend across a southern fence line on my property. My best friend was a doberman rottweiler mix. He was without hesitation the most brilliant animal I've ever know. My veterinarian once said he was the smartest dog he'd ever known, as well. About ten years ago, during what turned out to be our last snow walk together, I learned not only was he brilliant, he was more loyal than most people I've known. While we hiked through ankle deep powder, I noticed clouds rolling in from the southwest. Unfortunately, I didn't pay attention to the density and increasing deep gray of these ominous clouds. We were caught in what is known as a "white out." A white out is exactly that. Snow falls so fast and heavy, you cannot see. Visibility is zero. If you hold your hand in front of your face, you cannot see it. What you see is white, nothing else. If you aren't careful, you will panic. Whether you're careful, or not, you will find yourself swimming in anxiety because your brain takes over, adrenalin starts pumping, and you want to run for safety, but where. You cannot see anything.

My loyal best friend was not fazed, and he did not experience any anxiety. I felt his nose pushing the palm of my gloved hand. He was directing me to hold onto him. I felt around to his neck, then firmly grabbed his collar. Blinded by snow, unable to get my bearings as to anything which might make sense, I simply let my dog guide me. The snow blizzard continued, relentless, for what seemed forever. I trusted him, and did not release his collar. Eventually he stopped, then nudged me to move forward. I reached out and was able to determine a barbed wire fence. Visibility remained zero, and the two of us worked our way down the fence line to a place where my dog stopped me again, this time pushing at my thigh to head away from the fence line. I grabbed his collar and together we pushed against snow that now reached my knees. Hypothermia was beginning to get a grip on me when my foot hit something solid and I fell on my face. It was my back porch steps.

The dog's name was Rudy. He was my hero before he saved my life during a New Mexico white out. And he was my guardian angel, my Spirit Wolf, forever after that day. He has been gone for many years now. But I know his spirit is often still around, guiding me, nudging me, encouraging me to keep pushing ahead, even when it seems futile to do so. If you've ever had a friend like Rudy, you know what I mean. I eternalized him in my suspense mystery, GHOST in the RAINBOW. Indeed, Rudy is the ghost in the rainbow.

Ireland

2010-03-18T16:20:00.002-06:00

Another Saint Patrick's Day has arrived and passed. I do not have any Irish ancestry. I don't have any Irish connection. However, I have been there a couple of times, and I cannot even begin to describe how much I liked Ireland. The first time I traveled there, I was a seventeen year old girl with long black hair, and a strong hint of Native American history all over my own features, which must've made me seem a bit exotic to the Irish. I traveled alone with a mind for adventure and a Southwestern U.S. accent they found difficult to understand. People approached me wherever I went, and all wanted to know where I had come from. A few were convinced I was Greek. For a seventeen year old who had decided to tour the world on her own, it was great fun. Fun to be thought of as exotic. Fun to be extremely popular just because. Fun to be welcome. I finished that tour of Europe and parts of the Middle East, and discovered similar experiences wherever I went. But I must admit, the Irish experience was specially fun. What a beautiful country, what lovely people.

From canoes to tankers.

2010-03-12T16:20:00.003-07:00

My life, your life, both are like an ocean. Settling upon our waters are so many things, including people, pets, events, which we will eventually look back on as if each occupied a specific proportion of our sea, of us. I have often considered who has been like a small canoe, who has been like an oil tanker. Canoes don't give much, they don't take much, they don't stay long, and they leave little impression. Tankers take as much as we will give, and hopefully they give as much as they take. My best friend in childhood is still my best friend. That's a give and take of equal proportion, and is what perpetuates a friendship lasting that many years. My family has been a mixture, and in the end, after my parents passed away, these relationships turned into one way adventures on choppy waters. I walked away from most of my relatives. One way adventures, especially when the waters are rough, are those events that will sink us. When these occur in my life, whether family, friends, husbands, boyfriends, I eventually get wise and grab a good life jacket and jump overboard. I am one to grow so used to the roller coaster ride of bad relationships, I lose perspective of what is normal. I've often heard myself asking trusted friends, "Is this normal?" They all shake their heads. And I still haven't grabbed my life jacket. One day, indeed, I'll run for the ship's rails and hurl myself into those crashing waves, and I will swim to shore and be just fine. I'm a survivor. We are all survivors. It is our instinct. Today, canoes, tomorrow light clipper ships, next week, battleships. My life, your life, it's what we do, it's how we navigate to get from here to there.

Offenses of the ones who don't see

2010-03-07T12:33:00.002-07:00

What we see is much more than our eyes have capacity to absorb and funnel to our senses. When we truly see someone or something, we have arrived at our own humanity. I have a long ways to go, and readily admit I often don't see, often am guilty of ignorance as wide and deep as the Grand Canyon. I hope those who know me well would say I am learning, I am getting better at seeing. Sometimes, however, what I feel about the ignorance of others is so large, I don't have words. Today I stood in line at a store where I often shop. A man who shared our line looked to be much older than I'm sure is his age. He walked with a slight stagger. His entire appearance, every aspect of him, suggested he'd been lost in alcohol for most of his life. Just an old cowboy, his clothes worn out, his denim jacket stained by seasons, his aroma soured by whisky. He was remarkably friendly and offered a smile mixed with comments to all. About the weather, about winter, about a soon-to-arrive springtime. Everyone ignored him. As if he did not stand there, was not amongst us, not a person. I stood at the end of the line, but did offer him a nod and a smile when he glanced in my direction. After he paid his money to the cashier, who also offered him no response, he pocketed his change and tipped his hat, then left. To be sure, he exists. His life is not our business. What carried him down the road of alcoholism and winded him up in a world with no respect for his kind, no acknowledgement that he exists? It's probably as much mystery to him as me. But I do know this, he is a living being, a soul, an energy of life. He offered no hostility, instead making pleasant small talk, desperate to fit in, knowing his welcome had expired in most groups of people a long, long time past. He reminded me of a homeless dog I'd once watched in a park. A scruffy hound, his ribs broadcasted his starvation, his fur never met a brush, but his tail wagged continuously while he ran from person to person, his eyes begged for warmth and kindness, his nervousness told of the truth. His presence was not appreciated, and his relentless efforts to find compassion would always be met with suffering. I do not know of the homeless dog's fate, but I imagine it included enormous suffering. I do know the man I saw today deserved a reply. He deserved a nod and a smile.

A Day in the Day

2010-02-13T15:23:00.002-07:00

There is nothing as special to me as life. All living creatures are special. And tomorrow is what I tend to think of as a Day in the Day, a special time, Valentine's Day. When I was a child, first through sixth grade, our class always created a big fancy box. We built these out of large boxes, crepe paper, ribbons, bows, glitter, and glue, and crayons. Gradually, it was filled with all our valentines to each other. I recall how exciting this day was, because it symbolized how every one else in my classes felt about me; and it offered me the opportunity to tell them how I felt about them. It was a grand Day in a Day, a wonderful time to celebrate me and all my classmates, and my teachers, too. And, it was very exciting because I always earned money from doing chores around our little farm, and I did chores for neighbors, too, which meant I could afford to buy really nice valentines for everyone. Corrales was a small village, and I knew all my classmates. I knew where they lived. I knew who their parents were. I knew their siblings, and cousins, and I knew what they would like me to write in their valentine card. And I did. I wrote special little "I love you" notes to my closest friends. I wrote "I send you kisses" to my boyfriends, who always numbered more than one or two. I wrote "I like you because I like you" to classmates who were not close friends. And I always wrote "You are my favorite teacher," because each year, each new teacher was my favorite. I still adore Valentine's Day, and am pleased to still receive a few valentine cards. I don't think, even for those of us who have reached our first half century, that we ever get too old to celebrate ourselves and our friends. Happy Valentine's Day to you, and I send you love, kisses, and I like you very much. And if you are a teacher, you are definitely my favorite teacher.

Thoughts from a sensitive mind

2010-01-14T13:59:00.002-07:00

Growing up, I was a sensitive kid. I could never pass an injured animal. I would always take it home and try to help it recover. My mother was a surgical nurse, and she did assist me with a lot of my youthful veterinarian skills. My brother possessed the same sensitive mind for animals, and I imagine my whole family was always sensitive to the hurt and pain of other creatures. My brother once got off his school bus almost a mile before his stop because a coyote had been hit by a vehicle, and it lay injured on the highway. My brother carried the injured coyote all the way home. It's blood stained his clothes, arms and hands. I helped him make a bed out of hay straw for the coyote in our tack shed. We waited impatiently for Mom to get home from work, and when she finally arrived, the three of us sat around the sad looking coyote, whose back was surely broken. There was nothing we could do. The coyote died that night.
I've always been concerned with the plight and welfare of all animals. I was taught that animals were as important as me, that they had as much right to their life as I had to mine. Perhaps that is why my heart was simply broken yesterday while I followed a livestock hauler carrying young pigs to market. Livestock haulers are not infrequent sights in cattle country, and I usually work at not thinking about the plight of the animals inside those haulers. I am not a vegetarian, but I don't eat much pork, fish or meat of any kind. If I never ate pork, fish or meat again, I would not miss it. The small pigs inside the cage were absolutely beautiful animals, very clean, alert with the natural intelligence pigs possess (IQ's equivalent to elephants and dolphins, very smart), and truly worried. I drove behind the hauler for awhile, and all the pigs managed at some point to make direct eye contact with me. I could tell they knew I was one of those creatures who cared about them. They seemed to be asking me to help them, to set them free, to save them. I wanted to help them, and found myself feeling so saddened by the event. When I passed the hauler, I could see them straining to watch my car exit their view. It was heartbreaking. Such lovely intelligent animals. Their destination was too sad to consider. The older I get the more I find myself overcome by these thoughts from a sensitive mind.

Mindfulness

2010-01-07T12:46:00.002-07:00

Mindfulness is a lot of things to different people. My idea of mindfulness is simply being present. If I am here, alive, aware of this moment, I am mindful. If I am distracted, I am certainly not present, and cannot be mindful. There are an infinite number of situations which can occur in any life to cause distraction. I could write textbooks of classic episodes of distraction. Anyone could. These are the events that set us back, throw us forward, or simple stick us in our tracks. We don't move. But we aren't present, either. As a young teenager, I was riding as passenger in an automobile my older sister was driving. She was an inexperienced sixteen year old. As she drove along a highway and crested a hill, another automobile was obstructing her lane of travel. An experienced driver would have swerved to the right, and skidded off the pavement. My sister tried to drive around the car, swerving to the left. She saw an approaching gravel truck and hit her brakes. We landed sideways in a ditch. Within about ten seconds, the gravel truck ended up rolling over our car. My sister hit the windshield and rolled through it. I rolled out of the car, beneath the gravel truck. My sister eventually recovered, as much as she ever would, from her traumatic brain injury. I spent a lot of months in the hospital having both legs reconstructed. I've walked with a limp ever since. My sister never recognized me afterwards. She did not recall the accident, and never has acknowledged me. She has been cruel and often outrageously cruel, because she thinks I am a person who pretends to be her sister. When my parents passed away, I decided it was a good time to walk out of her life forever. I will never go back. She does not know me. I do not enjoy the suffering she causes. And I realize it is all because of mindfulness. She was lost to her own life for approximately one year after the accident. I have been lost to her since she steered the car into the path of a gravel truck. I was never unconscious. I recall being under that big truck. I recall the ambulance drivers. I recall telling them I was not alone, that my sister was somewhere. They found her off the highway in the forest. I never lost mindfulness. I was probably more present during that episode of my life than I have ever been. I also remember all the times my sister talked about her conversations with soldiers who wore either blue or gray uniforms. She spent much of her amnesiac year in the company of Civil War soldiers who actually helped her find her way back to mindfulness. My novel, The Shiloh Renewal, is fiction, but it is based on much that was true about that accident, and her struggle to find mindfulness. Although she never did find the young sister who was her passenger in the car that day, she did recover, and struggles with staying in focus on her current life.
Mindfulness. It doesn't give or take. It simply is this moment.

Writers and Royalties

2009-12-20T08:36:00.004-07:00

During a conversation the other day, a friend said he'd like to read more of my work. He's never purchased one of my books, and announced that he would search online sites to find the cheapest used copy. Can't quite describe how it made me feel. I don't mind people buying used books. I buy used books when I cannot afford the new edition, or it is not available. But I was immensely surprised. My top selling book, at full retail, costs less than a fast-food lunch. The exchange set my thoughts to churning. About writing. About the talent and skill it requires to be a mass market author. About the efforts and creativity involved in presenting a book that causes most readers to want the story to continue. And about that particular friend. Perhaps his comment was ignorance. I wondered how many people realize that a written product is someone's livelihood. When I write a book, and it begins to sell, I receive modest royalties for each new copy sold. The more the book is discounted by a seller, the smaller my royalty. In fact, some discount stores sell the book so cheaply, I receive no royalty at all. That is okay. It's part of a book contract. But royalties are my bread and butter. They allow me to pay bills, stay warm in the winter, buy hats to shade me from summer sun, and occasionally give away copies to fans during holidays or special events. Royalties help me take care of abandoned cats. Royalties help me help others. Without royalties, I could not write books, and I certainly would never be able to bring back popular characters. When people cannot afford my books, I always recommend they ask their library to purchase them. Libraries exist for the patron, and what the patron wants to read is what the library is obligated to buy. And I receive royalties, albeit very small, for each copy a library adds to their collection. It is a simple food chain.

I've thought a lot about this. I would never ask a person to sell me their goods and services at such a discount that they weren't breaking even. I wonder if people consider this. Whether books or music, the same is true. Most artists (author or musician) have day jobs, or have had day jobs. We aren't in the top ten (which is an artificial place created by the publisher/book store industry, not actual popularity, but that's another story). We don't support ourselves entirely off our product royalty. And we don't guest on Oprah. But we are part of the wheel that keeps art alive. We create the stuff that people toss in their carry-on to make flights and travel more enjoyable. We bring you thrills and mystery, suspense and drama, in a tiny package you can take anywhere. Without the small royalty from each item sold new, we are out of business.

Next time you read a book, I hope it changes you, entertains you, brings out emotions you need to experience. I hope you realize the only way that authors can create another book for your enjoyment is through royalty compensation. And, if you really want a surprise, shop at the comparison sites. Most of the time you will discover brand new copies of what you are looking for are available, along with a free shipping coupon, for less than the used book (which never has a free shipping coupon).

The small stuff.

2009-12-06T12:50:00.003-07:00

There are four of us. Women of similar age (which allows similar experiential history), similar intelligence, similar accomplishment. We are friends and have been friends for many years. Every few months we manage the impossible of coordinating all our schedules and meeting for lunch. Our lunches always turn into about a three hour gab fest. We catch up on who is doing what, who is going where, who went where, and small stuff such as that. We have endured about as much as any group of friends can endure during a lifetime. Other friends have died. Parents have grown ill. Parents have died. Siblings have disappointed. Husbands and boyfriends have been unfaithful. Divorces and separations have occurred. Jobs have ended. New jobs have begun. We are consistent. We never sit in judgement and criticism, we don't label or disrespect each other. It can only be assumed and expected that we have all watched each other make poor choices, continue existing struggles where poor choices were already made, and wished we could dig out a crystal ball for all to see, thus preventing future disasters that perhaps one or two or three might see in store for the other. But we don't lecture or give advice. Lectures and advice are abundant in our lives already. We don't need more of that. What we need is friendship. What we are is that: friends. If a definition could be invented brand new to define genuine friendship it would be simple. It would be the four of us. Sitting around a table sharing lunch. Sharing gossip. Sharing tears. Sharing time.

Goodbye, Melissa.

2009-11-21T10:26:00.000-07:00

I have known Amy for many years. I have been bossy and overbearing, lecturing her whether she needed it or not. I have offered advice, whether she wanted it or not. And I have always been there when she called. Amy is one of my dearest friends, and would be a daughter I would be proud to have. Amy's mother, Melissa, has been a friend for many years, too. Early this morning, around 2 a.m., Melissa passed away. She leaves many who will miss her, many who will be sad for a long time, and no one who will be more affected than Amy. I have lost my brother, most of my relatives, more recently I lost my father, and then last year, my mother. I never realized the bonds and ties a mother has to her children could be so strong, but when my mother died I learned that axiom to be as true as all truths. Perhaps there are no bonds as strong and delicate all at the same time as those between a mother and a daughter. I wish I could absorb all the pain and suffering Amy will endure during the coming days, weeks and months while she mourns her mother, but I cannot. These are emotions and wounds she must endure and find repair for alone. If all the hurting my own heart feels could be instant credit, reducing time she will hurt, then her credit card would be full to cash in when she tired from the tears. I wish life worked this way. I often wonder why so much of our living is spent in journeys toward, through, and away from all that makes us suffer most. Today my greatest job seems to simply sit here quietly, in case Amy calls. Even when it hurts us most, life is truly wonderful, and never is that more clear than during the moments just before a loved one leaves us. Because we cannot turn the clock back.

Turkeys

2009-11-18T13:59:00.003-07:00

This is not a heartwarming story, and may upset people with very sensitive dispositions, so please don't read any further if this describes you.

I grew up in Corrales, New Mexico. Today Corrales is like the Beverly Hills of Central New Mexico, but during the sixties, Corrales was a village. We had small farms nestled between Von Davidson Quarter Horses and Jaspar Koontz's cattle ranch. Apples, pears, green chili, pumpkins, and red chili were the crop harvests in greatest abundance. Because we had animals of all sizes and types, I was a nut for all animals. When I was about six my mother placed six newly hatched turkeys in my care. I worried and fussed over my baby turkeys as if they were all little children ... forgetting that I was still a little child myself. I named them, fed them, watered them, exercised them, talked to them, and taught them to follow me about our small farm. Turkeys are quite intelligent, and rapidly learned which window in our house belonged to my bedroom. Early every morning, when they decided I'd had enough sleep, they'd jump up and rap on the glass with their beaks. I'd rush outside and sprinkle their feed, refresh their water, and visit with them. Every afternoon when my school bus deposited me at the end of our dirt road, my turkeys were waiting for me. We'd all run home together. They, with assistance from wings, could get airborne while running, which gave them a speed advantage. I thought they were the most splendid creatures. I trained them to ride, one at a time, in my wagon. I'd pull them around the farm while I fed my horse and the other farm animals. They chattered a mile a minute, and I absolutely delighted in conversation with them.
In early November, my mother gave me a list of neighbors. Six neighbors each wanted one of my turkeys. I was so pleased. I loaded them up in the wagon and took each one to its new home. I instructed the neighbors with particulars for each turkey: name, favorite grain, favorite play games, favorite bread treats. When all six turkeys had new homes, I cried myself to sleep for many nights because I missed my little buddies. But, I was pleased they had new homes.
After Thanksgiving, our neighbors sent notes to thank me for raising such big fat holiday turkeys. I had no idea all my little friends had been killed and eaten. I actually passed out from the shock of learning this. I'm sure my mother had no idea how personally attached a six year old will get to half a dozen baby turkeys, and I know both my parents were deeply sorry at how it turned out. My brother took me aside and talked to me afterward. He said the neighbors were not to blame, although I hated them for killing my pets. He was thoroughly angry and upset with my parents for allowing me the job of raising farm turkeys. I'm not sure if such a task could have been pain free for anyone. But I've never enjoyed Thanksgiving turkey. I prefer the cornbread stuffing, the mashed potatoes, the cranberries, the dinner rolls, the fruit salad, and the pumpkin pie. The ordeal of discovery was traumatic and horrific for a six year old who absolutely loved and doted on her class of turkeys. I will always remember them. They were special. The lesson for me was multidimensional, but primarily what I took away from that was a sincere appreciation for life and all animals. Perhaps compassion grew in me more than it might have, otherwise. But I don't believe animals are less than people. I believe we simply have advantages.
I love Thanksgiving, but it was never intended as a time to kill turkeys. Especially my turkeys.

Last Buffalo (a traditional story from my mother)

2009-09-27T19:26:00.001-06:00

Last Buffalo had been asleep for a very long time. When she finally woke up all that stretched ahead for as far as anyone could see was tall yellow wheat grass. Last Buffalo rose to her feet and looked in all the four directions before choosing the path toward the north star. She walked in solitude for many days. Suddenly one morning she heard the cries of a baby grizzly.
"Where is your family?" she asked the bear cub.
"I am the last Bear," Grizzly replied.
"Crawl on my back," Last Buffalo said. "I will take you with me."
And together they traveled for days. Then they heard the cries of a lone wolf pup.
"Where is your family?" Last Buffalo asked.
"I am the last Wolf," Lone Wolf said.
"Crawl on my back," Last Buffalo said. "I will take you with me."
And together all three traveled northward until one day they heard the cries of a lion cub.
"Where is your family?" Last Buffalo asked.
"I am the last Lion," Lion Cub said.
"Crawl on my back and we will all travel in safety," Last Buffalo said.
When many more days past, they heard the cries of a baby eagle.
"Where is your family?" Last Buffalo asked.
"Gone," said baby Eagle. "I am the last of my kind.
"Perch between my horns," said Last Buffalo. "We must all stay together now."
And so they traveled, always following the north star, until they reached the Great Mountain. And that is where they remain in Spirit, and that is where they can always be found.

Crossroads

2009-09-23T19:37:00.002-06:00

I don't keep up with this as much as I think I should. I don't see my good friends as often as I'd like to see them. I don't take long walks around the ranch like I used to do. I don't do a lot of things that were once big on my list. Life transforms us even when we aren't ready, and the process of change alters who we are. I am not the person today that I was this time last year, or even this time last week. Four years ago my hair was still naturally dark brown with a bit of silver mixing in. Both my parents were alive, still putting in their garden every spring, still talking about the next time they were going to drive up to Canada. I had eight first cousins. I had two aunts and one uncle. I had three cats and two dogs. Today the brown is mostly gone from my hair. I have one aunt and seven cousins. My parents passed, my uncle passed, an aunt passed, all my pets passed except for one cat. By today's standards, I am still young ... getting into my mid 50's. So much has changed, and I have been changed by all these events. I spent last summer, into the autumn, working through intensive depression therapy. I wrote my seventh book. I endured one of the worst betrayals of my life. And I am still feeling quite powerfully strong, alive and enthusiastic about tomorrow. This week I found myself standing quite stuck, looking at a crossroads. A new friend (who seems like a forever friend because we share ancestral Shawnee blood) made it possible for me to have a healing prayer from a Shawnee medicine man. His medicine proved very strong because I have begun my tracks down a path I would not have otherwise chose. Life isn't easy. No one said it would be. But how we travel, and how we feel about ourselves while we make our journey, that is what matters. Tomorrow? Who knows. Everything changes, and I find the going is easier if I don't resist changes.

Native American Magazine

2009-09-12T08:23:00.002-06:00

I invite you to explore and enjoy learning from this excellent American Indian magazine:

http://nativedigest.com

Transformations

2009-08-30T12:42:00.000-06:00

This morning while listening to a CD I heard some words that caused me to think similarly. Every moment is a new opportunity, and if for nothing else, an opportunity for enjoying the capacity to breath and be alive in the moment. I have had growth spurts this past month that I would have never believed myself willing to endure. But the beauty has been the process. Suffering is a remarkable process. Through intense, and what seems unbearable pain, we touch our deepest spirit and make a connection to Spirits who are our Angels, there, willing to sit through our worst exhibitions of who, what, we don't want to be. From that suffering I am reaching a new dimension. I don't like the pain, but I don't resist the suffering, or the emotions that arise. Anger has been a great friend this month. I've learned more about Anger than I ever realized there was to know. This hour, the next hour, and the next, I am in a state of continuous transformation. Nothing has to be this way, or that way, and everything changes regardless how I thought it should be, or should have been. There will be a time when I won't have a new breath. And today life is so precious because I have this new breath, one after the next. Even if I suffer. I am happy to be alive and learning, changing, transforming.

Being Public, Being Private

2009-08-25T09:04:00.001-06:00

I am a public person. My careers have always put me in a public light. I have never tried to be more or less than who I am, and hope that intention is always immediate. Blogs are very private, but they go public as soon as you hit the publish button. Blogs are also brand new for me. I joined the blog writers groups a few months ago, and have been learning as I go. Early last month I had two very dramatic personal experiences, and because the intensity of my emotions was so raw, so human, so available, I shared much of the experience in my blogs. I am now going to talk about more of what those two experiences were about. The first experience involved something very serious. A death threat from an unknown person. The second experience involved discovering a man I'd been involved with (on again, off again for almost fourteen years) had been involved briefly (and without sincerety) with another woman. Law enforcement agencies get to worry about the first event. But the second was shattering. If you've ever been where I found myself, you know. Depending on our personalities, our reactions vary. I was in a classic state of shock during the first two weeks. Then I slipped right into Anger with a capital A. I am a therapist and a counselor. I have the skills, I know the tools, for repairing and rebuilding a relationship damaged by such betrayal. I also know it requires enormous work and a great deal of patience from both parties. I was not the party who wanted to stay and work and be patient. I was the one who wanted to walk away and get on with my life. He wanted to talk, to go to the truth, to seek forgiveness. I wanted to be angry and exit. We have compromised. We are talking a lot of truth. We are discovering patience we didn't know we had. Don't know where any of this will end up, but one thing I am sure of, and that is this: If something was worth your time, your energy, your emotions, then it is probably worth forgiveness. Forgiveness is a kindness we process for our own health. Forgiveness does not make us weak. It makes us rich, it grows us into a place where our life is truly peaceful with every step we take. I may not choose to be with this man when all the rocks have been thrown, when all the anger is exhausted, when all the truths are exposed, when forgiveness is where we arrive. But I will be a much better person. And I will do what my mother always taught me to do in the face of adversity: I will leave soft tracks in the snow.

Religion, spirituality and me.

2009-08-19T12:48:00.003-06:00

There are several primary religions, thousands of branches, and tens of thousands of sub branches off each primary religion. Growing up with mixed ancestry, most of my spiritual beliefs are rooted in American Indian thinking. I grew up in a predominantly Catholic village. I attended a Seventh Day Adventist university of medicine and allied health professions. I've traveled around the world several times, spent a lot of time in the Middle East, and have lived out of Country. My exposure to all the primary religions is extensive. My exposure to the many branches and sub branches is also quite extensive. My personal beliefs always walk me back to my ancestral thinking. Not sure there is a better way to describe what that means than to quote my paternal grandfather. Once I asked him who I should offer a prayer to, and he said, "To Whoever is listening." Needless to say, I believe in Spiritual things, and am always quick to offer a prayer. When I pray, I begin with, "To Whoever is listening ... " and I know Whoever listens hears me. My prayers always receive answers. Frequently not the answers I would want, but then, that is why I pray. The answers I want are not always the ones I need.

The past month in my life has been a mixture of the best and worst that life has to offer. I'm sure the more bizarre aspects of these experiences will make their way into my next book. Those worst moments have sent me back to prayer, often. And from those prayers I've been refreshing old understandings of the less than comfortable emotions we endure. In asking for relief from these sufferings, I've been provided a forest to walk through, and a path that will keep me steady, help me learn. Some days my navigation skills get lost and I end up sitting in one place. That's okay. It's part of the progress of Life. And, while sitting still, I haven't been stagnant. I have reexamined those things that always disturb happiness. I call these things 1) wrong thinking, 2) obsessive desire, and 3) anger.

Wrong thinking is the stuff we put in our thoughts that are not true. Obsessive desire can apply to anything we become obsessive about, such as wanting someone who has harmed us to be harmed, so they will suffer, too. Anger is destructive. We put anger into our minutes, hours, days, and if we cook it until it simmers, we are only burning ourselves. Anger harms the angry person the most.

Today I feel like I'm in a canoe on a big lake without paddles. My canoe drifts, I drift. My canoe sits idly, I sit idly. It isn't how I wanted to spend the day, but it is the answer to yesterday's prayer. Whoever was listening knew that today I need to sit alone on the lake in my canoe.

Traffic tickets

2009-08-07T15:54:00.003-06:00

Hard to believe, but I've never had a traffic ticket of any kind. The day I turned sixteen, my uncle drove me down to the motor vehicle department. I easily passed all my tests, they took my picture, and gave me a driver's license. My uncle got a ride with someone else, and left me to drive myself to school. It was such a funny moment. I sat there alone in my car, thinking how horrible it would be to get a ticket. When I drove away from the MVD, a motorcycle cop pulled in behind me. There was a stop sign. I actually drove right through the stop sign. He stopped me, looked at my brand new driver's license, wished me a happy birthday, and told me not to run anymore stop signs. That was my last run in with traffic cops. Until a few weeks ago. I was traveling with two other vehicles, all of us running the same speed, around 55 in a 45 zone. I saw the cop first and tapped my brakes. He pulled me over because he saw me tap the brake. I'd left my current insurance card and vehicle registration in my home office. The frustrated but kindly cop told me I needed to keep those things in my car. I apologized, and then he gave me a speeding ticket. I went to court Monday. No one told me they had a dress code for traffic court. I wore a rather nice summer top, but it didn't quite make dress code. I had ten minutes. I drove over to Walgreens, bought a t-shirt, slipped it over my head while the clerk was ringing it up, and then got back to court one minute before the doors closed. Whew.
Because of my dress code violation, they put me last on the morning docket. Traffic court is very interesting. My seat was alone in the very last row, and I was able to watch and listen to each traffic offender. The judge would ask for a plea, and then allow each person to explain their circumstance. It's amazing the stories a judge hears. Most of them were similar to the ones you heard in second grade, you know, the ones that go: The dog ate my homework. I felt really bad for the judge, having to sit there and listen to all those irrational arguments. When the courtroom was empty, except for me, and I had my turn at the podium, I just told her the truth and waited. She smiled and said, "I'm going to take care of this for you. How about you avoid getting any more tickets during the next thirty days, and your ticket will just drop off your record." I thanked her and left. So, technically, I have still never had a traffic ticket. And, if I ever do get another one, I will tell the judge the truth. They should pay judges extra for having to listen to all that nonsense.

More old reviews, Neighbors, 1993

2009-07-20T16:54:00.002-06:00

Two Reviews for NEIGHBORS

Whispering Wind: American Indian Past & Present, Vol. 25, No. 6 / Winter 1992

Neighbors, a novel, by Joan Leslie Woodruff
Published by Third Woman Press, Ethnic Studies, University of California, Berkeley, 1993.

Reviewed by Laura L. Klure

It is not always possible to choose one’s neighbors. Even if you have checked out a neighborhood in advance, moving to a different home can mean that your are in for some surprises.
Such is the case for the heroine of a fascinating new novel by Native American writer Joan Leslie Woodruff. The protagonist of Neighbors, Dana Whitehawk, cuts loose from a hectic existence in Los Angeles and transplants herself into a rather unpopulated area in New Mexico.
Whitehawk is seeking solitude, but instead she finds a renewed interest in life through contacts with her odd new Native American neighbors. Her strange adventures with these neighbors include warding off an enemy, attending tribal ceremonies, and such seemingly mundane activities as watching TV and drinking coffee.
The beauty of Woodruff’s novel in in the language. Rich metaphors decorate her descriptions, and conversations between characters twist interestingly with unusual, but believable, phrases and expressions. The tale is far from a comedy, but Woodruff imbues even ordinary scenes with a delightful wry humor.
The story proceeds rapidly, with a quirky, slightly foreign cadence. Unlike some frustrating slice-of-life stories, the plot reaches of kind of denouement. Even so, the reader is left wanting more, perhaps in a sequel.
Woodruff does not neatly tie up all the novel’s loose ends, or answer all the reader’s possible questions. Her treatment of the magical-real boundary, for example, stems from Native American sensibilities, rather than from conventional rules familiar to Anglo Americans. Readers may wonder why Whitehawk is so slow to figure out the mystery behind her neighbors. However, these questions do not keep the book from being thoroughly enjoyable.
The writer is obviously a lover of animals. Sympathetic animal characters provide a charming motif, and are the source of much of the book’s humor.
The references to aspects of Native American cultures in the Southwest are authentic, informative and compelling. Much of the material apparently stems from experiences in the author’s own background. Born in New Mexico of mixed American Indian and white heritage, Woodruff spent most of her young adult life in Southern California. She returned to her native New Mexico, and currently resides east of Albuquerque.
This is a spiritual saga, palatably told with a light, undogmatic touch. Both comparatively short and generally upbeat, Neighbors in a good read for someone with a tight schedule who is seeking a lift.

***

The Estancia Valley CITIZEN, Vol. 35, Number 13, April 1, 1993.
Estancia, New Mexico

A Very Good Day For a Cup of Coffee
Review by Morrow Hall

Neighbors, by Joan Leslie Woodruff

Neighbors is a friendly book, as its title implies. It starts out in Los Angeles, where the narrator, Dana Whitehawk, the head dietitian at an LA hospital, “goes out of control.”
“I thought I would be living there until my feet turned skyward and some generic coroner tied a tag on my toe,” she relates. “The, on a rare day when I could see the sky and mountains peering down upon my basin metropolis, I lost it.”
She realized she wasn’t tied to the smoggy city where she grew up. Her exuberance at that realization -- which she expressed by “standing on her roof waving a pair of scissors ... saying she’d cut the cord, things like that” -- delayed her departure. The neighbors she had lived next to for 13 years but never met “put in a 911 on her.”
Those neighbors are not the ones referred to in the title.
After two weeks in a psychiatric ward, Dana heads east: “Into Arizona. I didn’t like Arizona. On to New Mexico. New Mexico I liked.”
She ends up buying a house on 40 acres “in the mountains north of Santa Fe” from and old man named Sam, “who should’ve had a tag on his toes decades ago.” He becomes one of her two best friends.
“Hope you like your neighbors,” he tells her.
Those neighbors turn out to be a rooster and a handful of hens; an Indian boy about 8 years old; an old Indian medicine man who is always suggesting that Dana make coffee and who loves to watch Coyote and Roadrunner cartoons and I Love Lucy reruns on Dana’s television; the medicine man’s much younger, rather grouchy wife, who teaches Dana how to gather clay and make pottery, and a friendly but less than fastidious mule who's name is, appropriately, Mule.
Mule becomes Dana’s other best friend.
Together, Dana’s neighbors introduce her to the customs and ways of living of the Pueblo Indians, and she changes. Soon her ways resemble theirs more than the city dweller who “lost it.”
But there is something strange about these neighbors, something Dana senses and begins to believe despite her unwillingness to do so.
It is something you’ll have to read the book to find out about.
Neighbors is as tightly woven as a good Indian rug, and just as valuable.
Joan Leslie Woodruff has “an old stubborn Indian background.” Her father, from Mississippi, and her mother, from Tennessee, met in Albuquerque where her father was stationed at Sandia Base and her mother was in nurse’s training at St. Joseph’s Hospital.

Old reviews for Ghost in the Rainbow, 2003

2009-07-18T10:19:00.002-06:00

Reviewed by Laura L. Klure
Riverside, California
First published in Steppin' Out Magazine, 2003.

"Mountainair author pens sequel to popular 'Neighbors'"
Quirky, funny, heartwarming -- those are not terms one usually expects in a description of a mystery thriller. But Joan Leslie Woodruff is not an ordinary writer, and Ghost In the Rainbow is not a formulaic book.
Ghost in the Rainbow is the latest novel from a Native American author who lives near Mountainair, New Mexico. Released in November, this book continues the saga of characters Joan Woodruff introduced in one of her previous novels, Neighbors. Themes of Native American spirituality, self-discovery, and compassion for animals are common to both books. But Ghost bites with a harder edge.
Woodruff's unique, wry humor still comes through in Ghost, but this tale includes more graphic violence than was depicted in her earlier novels. The faint-of-heart may be relieved that the gore is generally off-stage, but the horror we imagine might be worse than what is actually detailed.
The realism of Woodruff's characters and situations may cause anyone who reads her bio to say, "Ah, yes." With degrees and a professional background in medicine and therapy, and experience in assisting police and working with substance abusers, Woodruff portrays such elements quite expertly in her fiction. A keen observer who has lived in various locales in both California and New Mexico, Woodruff's settings also smack true. Her unusual word choices paint vivid pictures, while keeping the text sparse.
The protagonist of Ghost in the Rainbow is a new character, Myra Whitehawk, a cousin to Dana Whitehawk, whom readers met in Neighbors. Like Dana, Myra is on a quest.
Woodruff said, "Myra possesses a charismatic personality. She is an American Indian raised in poverty and unstable surroundings, who manages to pull surprises from an empty bag of tricks."
Myra encounters horrific danger while she is seeking to find her path, her self, meaningful relationships, and sobriety. A demonic villain, grizzly murder, a prison riot, stalking, kidnapping, and mental torture are among the nasties in the plot. Even so, Woodruff serves up enough hope, enough uplifting Indian wisom to make to books a good postive read.
Another of Woodruff's books, The Shiloh Renewal, dealt with Civil War violence, and the internal torment of a brain-damaged character. However, the author seems to reach a new level of terror and mystery in Ghost in the Rainbow. The Shiloh Renewal received very positive reviews when it was released, and it continues to delight readers, as reported on Amazon (books). Neighbors also earned a 5-star rating at Barnes and Noble's web site, and Ghost is likely to follow.
Woodruff's first published book, Traditional Stories and Foods: An American Indian Remembers, is out of print and highly sought after among cookbook lovers. This paperback book's Native American folklore has attracted attention from various quarters, including from the entertainment industry (EMI Capitol Records).
Woodruff has also written a number of short stories, which have been published in a variety of Indian and mainstream magazines, and then anthologized in literary collections. Her work and biography are included in the reference books Something About the Author, and in The Favorites.
A licensed occupational therapist (and counselor), Woodruff worked in clinical and hospital settings in California before returning to her native New Mexico. She has been a correspondent writing feature articles for various publications in New Mexico, and she served as a board member for the Torrance County DWI Council. She has a private practice as a forensic counselor. Woodruff's work is listed on various websites, including her own at home.earthlink.net/~seyhanjo/index,html.
Look for Ghost in the Rainbow published in paperback by Hats Off Books, Tucson AZ.
The striking cover artwork is by Mountainair artist Jesse Davidson, and favorable comments quoted came from author Timothy Wyllie, actor Miles O'Keeffe, and a former New Mexico prosecutor.

Published in The Independent Newspaper, Edgewood, New Mexico, March 19, 2003.
Mountainair novel a rare pleasure
By Wally Gordon
One of the rare pleasures of being a New Mexican -- shared in equal measure by residents of few other state -- is regularly encountering books that hold up a mirror to the people and places we know well and are fond of. The latest example is Ghost in the Rainbow, a new novel by American Indian writer Joan Leslie Woodruff, who has been a Mountainair based freelancer for The Independent.
The heroine is a freelance writer for a sizable local weekly newspaper, and one of the major characters is an editor single mindedly focussed on publishing solid news and doing it first. Whether the fictional editor resembles the editor of The Independent is moot.
The novel also contains a long chapter recounting an investigation of Pancho Villas kidnapping of a local woman, an episode that Woodruff detailed in a two-part series in The Independent.
Woodruffs use of local scenes and characters does not stop there. Her villain haunts the pay telephone at the Torreon Post Office. The editor and heroine head out for the Willard Cantina but never make it.
The book climaxes in the Manzano Mountains. Scenes unwind in Albuquerque, Socorro and Los Lunas. The heroine, like Woodruff, lives on a ranch outside Mountainair. US 60 laces together much of this story as profoundly as the Salt Mission Trail links Southern Torrance County.
Woodruff is a woman of many parts and skills. In real life she has learned a great deal about many fields, including journalism, criminology, investigations, horses, veterinary science, ranching, psychology, and substance abuse counseling. She deploys this formidable array of lore to elucidate the nooks and crannies of her dramatic story. The plot deals with a man accused of the brutal killing of a child, who is believed to be his son. He denies his guilt and seeks to enlist the reporter in proving his innocence. The central thread of the novel is the cat-and-mouse game between the reporter and the accused killer. But wrapped around this thread are other tentacles. The reporters life is coming apart as her husband abruptly absconds.
Life for her becomes a bed of dissatisfaction She is tempted to retreat into the alcoholism that for years dogged her life and her marriage, but is saved by the American Indian roots that she is able to tap into. It all makes for a fast paced dramatic tale of rapidly shifting scenes and subjects, tied together by one womans struggle to solve the riddles of a brutal crime and an unraveling life.

Review by Timothy Wyllie, a best-selling author:
GHOST...is a powerfully effecting book. It is both metaphysical and yet intensely physical. By focusing on the tenuous border between madness and what we take for sanity, Joan Leslie Woodruff strips away the layers of the mind of a psychotic, a murderer who soon becomes fixated on the author's protagonist, Myra Whitehawk. Whitehawk herself is wrestling with her own form of madness as we meet her, recently separated from a cold-fish of a husband and slipping in and out of acute alcohol dependency. With a voice that remains authentic from start to finish, Ms. Woodruff explores that hidden territory which lies between delusion and reality, life and death, conscienceless cruelty and sacrificial compassion. With a wisdom that can only come from deep personal experience she leads the reader into those vulnerable places within the human and animal psyche in which we are shown how our very humanity, our compassion and caring, emerge from the deep flaws in our characters which we are trying sometimes hopelessly to master. Contrasted with this is the cool, cruel, acutely intelligent, but ultimately machinelike mind of the psychotic.

READING. Out dated? Old fashioned?

2009-06-29T15:53:00.004-06:00

Does anyone really read anymore? Having just brought my sixth book out for reviews, book signings, and hopefully, placement in libraries and personal collections, I keep hearing "Can't I just download and listen?" Eventually, I hope that will be possible, but today all I have is a very nice paperback. It is bigger than most paperbacks, which means print is a bit larger, easier to read. I never expected to hear people simply don't read things. They listen to them. All this has prompted me to wonder if I have become a member of an extinct group. I must be very old fashioned about books, but I love the hard copy thing that I slip book markers in to hold my place. I love flashy dust jackets. I love how a new book sits on my book shelf. I enjoy throwing a book in my handbag before heading off to places where I am forced to wait awhile, like car dealer service centers, doctor's offices or airports. I'm sitting in the middle of my fifties and I have never owned a cell phone. I don't want to twitter. And I am not really sure what an MP3 looks like. I've been using computers for a very long time. My ex husband is a doctor of theoretical physics. He sat me down in front of a computer thirty years ago and coached me to use it. I've been using them ever since and I believe that makes me a modern minded person. Except when it comes to doing away with books. I simply cannot imagine a world without them. Stacked on desks, neatly lined up on shelves, hiding in a drawer, all waiting for me to open them up and jump in to all kinds of silly stuff, scary stuff, mysterious stuff, funny stuff, and just plain fascinating ideas. Books. There is no better bargain. For the price of one lunch you can buy a new book. For the cost of a nice dinner, you can buy five books. They are like tickets to ride anywhere. Open the pages and travel to Scotland, or Istanbul, or Utah, or New Mexico. Get lost on a mountain in a snow blizzard, all while relaxing on your favorite sofa. Study wolves in Canada, or dolphins in Florida, while soaking in your bath. When we lose the wonder of books, will we be lost? I wonder, does any one read them anymore?

Life after the book is completed

2009-06-02T15:17:00.005-06:00

I am going to begin with a Traditional Cultural Story from the Pima Indians. It's about Well Baked Man. Earth Doctor made the Earth and all its animals, but He was lonely. "Why don't you make yourself a human friend?" suggested Coyote. Coyote was hanging around, sticking his big nose into Earth Doctor's business, as usual. Earth Doctor liked the idea. He worked his clay into the shape of a man and went to gather fire wood for His oven. Meanwhile, Coyote reshaped the clay to suit himself. When Earth Doctor returned, He was in such a hurry to get His new creation into the oven, He didn't notice the changes Coyote made. In a few hours, out from the oven jumped a beautiful lady Coyote. Earth Doctor yelled, "You took my clay man and turned it into a friend for yourself, and I am still lonely!" Coyote said, "Oh, you can make another man." Earth Doctor got busy and created another human figure out of clay, and put him into the oven. While He napped, Coyote took the man out too soon. Earth Doctor woke up and said, "Oh no! This man is not done!" And He got busy and made a second. Again, He fell asleep. Again, Coyote interfered and took him out too early. Earth Doctor had to send both of these men across the big ocean, because they were not done. The third time He made his clay friend, He sat and watched the oven Himself. When it was baked just right, He took the man out, and the man was perfect. In Pima Tradition, that is how Pima Indians came to be.
You know, that's a lot of what it's like to write a book. You have an idea. You form it into a story. You decide who will be in the story. You write, rewrite, edit, and polish. After it finds a home with a publisher, you select a book cover, obtain reviews for the back cover, proof the galleys, and toss it in the oven to bake until it's well done. Then what? For me, there is a sense of loss which settles in for awhile. After all, the book had characters who followed me around from page one. They ate with me, slept with me, showered with me, shopped with me, worked with me, drove with me, and I grew comfortable having them in my life. I actually miss them, for awhile, until I begin a new project. I wonder if other writer's have similar experiences when their book is well baked and done?

Polar Bears in the Kitchen

2009-05-29T10:19:00.008-06:00

Many people who read NEIGHBORS wrote to let me know they did not want the story to end. I waited ten years before I brought out the sequel, GHOST in the RAINBOW. Topically different, but the same characters returned, along with a few new ones. First thing I began hearing: readers didn't want the story to end. I am happy to say I did not quite push ten years in between. POLAR BEARS in the KITCHEN carries these beloved characters into new adventure, new mystery, new dangerous territory. If you read any of the previous novels, reviewers are telling me you will be thrilled. If you haven't read the earlier books, you'll find this one stands alone and keeps you spellbound.
Reviews on the back cover are from: Kathryn Harrison, MA, LPC, Bereavement Coordinator, Hospice of the Western Reserve, Cleveland, Ohio; Diana M. Corzo, PsyD, Licensed Psychologist, California; and Judge Patricia A. Autrey, Municipal Court, Mountainair, New Mexico.
POLAR BEARS in the KITCHEN (ISBN 9781604942934) will be ready to purchase online at amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, or your favorite online store after June 20th. You can order it through any physical bookstore. If you cannot afford to buy the book, and your library doesn't carry it, please ask them to order it. You won't be disappointed. And, by the way, if you enjoy it, please leave a review at amazon.com.

Corrales, New Mexico's First Library

2009-05-16T08:15:00.007-06:00

My elementary school didn't house our library. Next door, nestled in a small room to the right of the firemen's lounge, is where we found our books. As a child, I thought everyone checked their books out at the Fire House. That's what we called our community fire department. My memories of going there, once a week, grade one through six, are full of wonder, happiness, excitement, and pure delight. It was a place of intrigue. Sometimes the massive table in the lounge was buzzing with conversation from the firemen who sat there discussing this or that. Other times the fire truck was missing from the garage where it usually sat like an enormous cat ready to pounce as soon as the fire alarm sounded.
No one had a library like ours, and perhaps because it was one of a kind, entirely unique, I have seldom liked anything more than a good library. That's where I discovered books were the key to the universe. By the time I finished grade school and headed out to junior high, I'd read almost every book our little Fire House library had to offer. That library helped me appreciate books, and books will open the door into a new world every day for anyone.

Friends Who Stay, Friends Who Drift Away

2009-05-13T08:08:00.004-06:00

No famous people today. Just me. During my lifetime I've known a lot of people. Why do we form bonds? Did you ever have a neighbor whose name you did not know? Maybe you wave at them, maybe not. Do you remember the kids you sat next to in class? The person in front of you might become your best friend. Or not. Remember all your colleagues and coworkers through the years? Which ones do you still talk to? I used to have ideas about why you bond and become friends. Not anymore. I don't know why. But we do bond with some people. Years go by, our lives pass through stages of good stuff, bad stuff, success, tragedy, routines, and we continue to have a few special people who are always there. Time is not important. Days, weeks, months, years, decades. Doesn't seem to matter. Their friendship is an infinite circle, and nothing breaks the circle. When you most need them, when you least need them, the bond survives. In my own life, family has not been like that. Family has not endured. My friends have endured. Friendship seems to transcend all the stuff that causes people to drift away. Friendship survives. Friends are pretty cool.

Rodeos, San Bernardino and a 72 Hour Hold

2009-05-12T08:52:00.006-06:00

I was not much beyond my teen years. An intern from Loma Linda University of Medicine and Allied Health Professions, I'd been assigned to work the psychiatric unit of a hospital in nearby San Bernardino. During the evening hours a young man was transported from Big Bear to the ER. My supervisor gave me his chart and told me to brush up on the case, and then she told me my day would be spent watching him. In brushing up, I learned he rode professional rodeo, possessed the highest ranking buckles, saddles, etc., and that he'd tried to kill himself. I cannot mention his name. Confidentiality rules don't expire.
Because I had a few relatives who rode the rodeo circuit, I knew all about this cowboy. He was the cowboy the others aspired to become. I remember reading his chart several times. I didn't know why the ER doctor sent him to the psychiatric ward for a 72 hour hold, or watch, as it was called. But what do interns know.
I first saw him sitting in the group lounge watching a morning television talk show. After introducing myself, I told him why I was there, and that I'd pretty much be tagging along with him until three that afternoon. He was easy to talk with, when he felt like talking. I'm sure he learned a lot more about me than I learned about him. When I finished my shift at three, I filed my notes in his chart, had my supervisor sign off on them, and stopped back by the lounge, where he resumed his post in front of the television. I told him I'd see him in the morning. But I never saw him again, except on television and posters. After all, interns don't make their own schedules, and the following day, I was sent to observe art therapy.
I did learn something. I learned why he was sent from ER to 72 hours on the psyche unit, and I began understanding how to spot the early signs of depression. More about depression in later posts.

Vincent Price, Ravens and ice tea

2009-05-10T08:04:00.006-06:00

I grew up in the village of Corrales, New Mexico. My friend Megan's mother owned the Molino Rouge, a popular restaurant across the street from our elementary school. I spent at least one weekend a month at Megan's house, and we often helped out at the Molino in the afternoon. That's where I met Vincent Price. He was having lunch with his son (who lived in New Mexico). Megan's mother, Jean, told us to ask Mr. Price if he would like tea or coffee. Megan had acquired a fit of giggles in the kitchen. I put on an apron and marched my ten year old self out to his table, and asked in my greatest attempt at maturity, "Would you like coffee, or tea?" He flashed the most alarming smile, and all I could think of was the Edgar Allan Poe poem about the raven. My mind kept repeating "never more, never more, sayeth the raven." By the time I got to the kitchen, Jean asked me what Mr. Price wanted, I had forgotten. I pretended he wanted a nice pitcher of ice water. I carried the ice water to him and he smiled again. He asked what grade I was in. I told him, still thinking about the raven. While pouring ice water into his glass, I spilled ice on his place setting. He laughed again. And then he reminded me that he would also enjoy some ice tea.
Tomorrow I am going to share some raven stories. I think they are remarkable intelligent birds. And by the way, Vincent Price was a remarkably nice person who was not perturbed by a child who poured ice water on him at a restaurant by the Rio Grande.

Old Dogs and Memories

2009-05-09T13:45:00.005-06:00

Today I thought a lot about how we are only alive in this moment. Each time I create a new word here, the previous words are only memories. Last month I lost a dear friend. Just an old dog, many would think. He was a good listener, a loyal companion, never critical nor disapproving. Dogs simply love you the way you are. He had cancer and suffered terribly from the pain and the crippling effect of lost bone which was replaced by cancer growths. I held him when he died. I felt his Spirit lift away and leave. All that is left are the memories. For a time I will be sad because the memories are fresh and I can still see him so clearly, I can still hear him sing to the night like the wolf who was his ancestor. Today he is a memory. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, only a memory. And one day, I will be like him. A memory. Today I am here, living each moment. I am honored with each breath. It feels good to breath. I wonder if I appreciate the moment as much as I should. Perhaps because I loved that old dog so dearly, that alone means I do appreciate the moment. And the new moments. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.