WALKING A MILE IN MY MOTHER'S SHOES

Astrology divides our story into 12 houses, nine planets, and the way they all interact. Fascinating stuff. You'll learn about your inner mother, the relationship with your outer mother, and all kinds of infuriating, confusing, liberating and otherwise consciousness-raising stuff that you'll spend the rest of your days trying to integrate. Since I believe the Universe has a hilarious sense of humor, the moon is the planet that represents our inner mother. Moon = lunar, lunar = that which makes us looney. Coincidence? I think not.

I sit at my mother's table this morning. I drink from her coffee cup, rest the cup on her coaster, grab the cream from her old frig. I open her sliding glass door to let my friends the quail and deer distract/inspire my writing efforts. When the blue jays finish every last bit of their seed I slide into my mother's old, left-behind, too big, very stained, hideous yet super comfortable sandals and walk the 20 feet to the feeder to re-fill it for the day.

Tomorrow will be the same. I will sit at her table, drink from her mug, walk in her shoes to go feed the birds that live on her land.

The land is in the town of Sisters, and that is what I am to my mom, her little sister. Through some convoluted chain-of-events and life's funny way of working, she is in a home that I own in Portland, I am in this home that she owns in Sisters, three hours away. Three, the holy trinity number, the number of perfect balance. The triangle. A number so sacred and steeped in all world religions I come close to tears just reflecting on that magical number.

Magic is happening to me here, too. Three hours away from the three people in my immediate family, husband and two kids. Three hours away from the three elders in my life, mother and father-in-law, and my mother. Three hours away from my three closest friends. Three hours away from my three greatest challenge areas, parenthood, partnership and primitive attachment to my mother.

Down goes the coffee cup, taking a look at the scratches and nicks on this antique table. How many times did my mother sit right where I am sitting and do just what I am doing (minus the Wi-Fi)? Settle herself into her day, into her skin, into her part of the collective? How did all these scratches and nicks earn their way onto this table and into the story of this woman?

Right knee crossed over left I catch a glimpse of my painted toes as my foot bobs up and down, unable to contain my itchy, restless nature even as I sit without a "legitimate" distraction in the world.

How like my mother's foot is the one I see in my periphery. Same boniness. Same narrow shape. Same high arch. Same long toes, same second toe on an even keel with the big toe, not shorter, not longer, it's equal match. Even our taste in polish is the same, although I have a sparkly pink and hers would be a sparkly pearl-esque color. Toes stay covered in polish year round, fingers only on special occasions.

Sisters in Sisters, is that what we are, my mother and me? Are we the big and second toe? Are we peers? An equal match? My mother has a sister, actually, a perfectly good one, I do not. How did our stories combine in the cosmos and come to play out in this lifetime? How is it that I have been my mother's confident, her back-up plan, her right-hand-gal, and she is not mine? How did it happen and why do I care? Why must I know why? Why isn't "just 'cause" enough to satisfy my dissatisfaction and a deep longing for more? I have more self-made sisters than I can even shake a stick at. Why isn't this enough? I am greatly blessed with any number of women I could call on and have by my side in a matter of moments. Why do I perpetually pine for the one that is unavailable to me?

Why is the one you can't have always the only one you want? How many relationships with men have I unintentionally, yet with veracity, chased because they were completely unavailable? First the gay men, then the aloof. The ones that called and adored? BORING! I didn't want anyone that wanted me - unbearable to be with such a pathetic person! No, give me the one that gave me nothing but inferiority complexes. Give me the ones that left me to feel they would abandon me at the slightest provocation. Give me the ones I couldn't have, then "give" them to me, let me think I "have" them, only to discover that all I have is a panic disorder!



My stuck-in-my-head song of the day is "Straight Lies, Crooked Secrets" by Ariane Lydon. Gorgeous lyrics, my favorite are these:

"Well you know there are reasons
And you know they are stale
But straight lies and crooked secrets
Take the wind from your sails"

What part of my "story" about my mother and me is a lie? Perhaps walking in those god-awful sandals this summer will tell me. I'm all ears.

THE MEMOIR DEBATE

Remember all the bruhaha over James Frey and A Million Little Pieces? Remember Oprah's outrage and public defamation? Remember how we all LOVED the book, but when we found out he "lied" we HATED the book, hated James Frey, and hated the horse he rode in on? Well, my friends, that horse he rode in on is called "memoir" and perhaps now that the flames of outrage have settled a bit, we can all stand to take a second look...

I, like so many, read the book, devoured it, actually. Loved everything about it. When I learned he had "lied" I felt cheated, too. What with the whole discrepancy between time in jail, blah, blah, blah. I still think he crossed the line in a couple of key places. He moved off the "essence" of the true story towards fiction. His "bad." Our total dismissal of his writing, his humanity, his amazing story, and the whole genre? Our bad!

While the relatively new genre of memoir continues to take the heat, the genre continues to EXPLODE. Women, especially, are hungry, starving, ravenous for story, connection, for some truth that no other genre delivers in quite the same way. We want to know that real people have experienced what we are experiencing, or have experienced. We want to know we are not alone. We want acknowledgment and validation. We want illumination and hope. We want company on our lonely journeys. Memoir, when done "right" does this, and it does it well. Perfectly.

My friend, Kario, has turned me on to the wonders of Anna Nalick. Her hit song, "Breathe" speaks to this issue. As a songwriter she, too, is pouring herself out in her art, and slapping it front of all of us to criticize, on one end of the spectrum, and deeply resonate with on the other. Don't forget, what we resist, persists. That which causes the most ire tends to have the most growth opportunity if we choose to look at it closely.



"2 AM and I'm still awake writing this song
If I get it all down on paper it's no longer inside of me threaten' the life it belongs to.
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary screamin' out aloud
And I know that you'll use them however you want to."

What if some of our most famed and adored painters were completely dismissed for these reasons? I'm sure in their lifetimes they had plenty of people saying, "But that doesn't LOOK like anybody!" "I've never seen a sky look like THAT!" Thank God we've come to expand our thinking and make room for different views, different ways, a moving outside of the tradional boxes that bind us into remaining "as is", without allowing for what is emerging.

Picasso's "The Red Arm Chair"

Van Gogh's "Starry Night"

Like Anna Nalick says, "If I get it all down on paper it's no longer inside me threatening the life it belongs to."

We memoirists know of what she speaks. That's why we do what we do. Not because we are gluttons for punishment, but because the holding of the story is more painful than the releasing of the story and the subsequent fall-out. We write because we cannot stand NOT to write. We write to discover what it is we are really thinking and feeling. We write to process our lives, and with any luck, ourselves. We write to illuminate our past and look brightly to the future. We write to awaken ourselves, and if possible, each other. We write. If you read us and like us, all the better, but no matter what, we must write. It's what we do. We are writers. We write.

SON OF A PREACHER MAN

As I sip my little (well, giant, actually) cup of heaven and check in on all my friends living in the animal realm outside my sliding glass door this early morning, I think about what today is, and what it means to me. 4th of July. Independence Day. Freedom. WUG.

"What is WUG?" you might ask? Well, WUG stands for Wilson, Urbigkeit and Goodwin. And the story of WUG goes a little something like this...

Forty years ago my Grandpa Ted, a retired Baptist minister, learned of this opportunity to purchase over sixty acres of "God's Country" along the banks of the Little Deschutes River in Central Oregon. He rallied his three Oregon-dwelling sons and two Oregon-dwelling sons-in-law to all go in together and snap it up. They did. Grandpa Ted then named it "WUG", using the combined initials of the three last names making this purchase. My dad, provided the "W", the other son-in-law the "U", and the three Goodwin brothers providing the "G". WUG, get it? Four of the five "brothers" were lawyers. Nothing says fun like a group of loud, highly opinionated, drunken lawyers sitting by a river bank out-pontificating one another!

Anyhoo, it was decided that this land (and the 25 adjacent acres we've since added) would stay rugged and in the family. That is to say, we are no closer to having the modern conveniences of running water, nor electricity, than we were 40 years ago. And we like it that way. It allows for us all to perform "The WUG test" on any potential lifemates. Nobody can unofficially join the family until they've proven to shine in the WUGgiest of conditions. We show no mercy. It is a long-standing tradition that anyone considering marriage must first bring the person in question to WUG, and let us all watch them sink or swim. How bad do you want to be in OUR family? We throw you straight to the wolves. Once in, however, you're SO in you will wish you weren't.

My grandparents lived in Santa Cruz, California, and only made rare appearances at WUG. They were good Baptists and eschewed and denounced the sins of smoking, alcohol and gambling. All card playing was considered tempting the devil, what with all those wicked looking face cards and all. Taking away the smoking, drinking and card playing, Bridge and poker, (just when they were around) was akin to killing all that was fun about WUG for the adults. Not so much the kids. I was only four when we started WUGging, my brother an infant. My twenty-eight first cousins and I all grew up on that river bank, together. We were the little ones playing on the banks without sunscreen and life jackets. We were the teenagers unsupervised and smoking pot in the tepee. We were the older ones joining our hands in marriage in the meadow, wearing hippie clothes and waist-length hair. The 60's, 70's, 80's, 90's and now the 00's have all been celebrated at WUG. We've buried beloved family pets at WUG. One set of human "remains" also rest in peace under the pines, with the intentions of many of us to join, eventually.

Now we are the parents of the children heavily sunscreened, life-jacketed and watched, playing by the river. We are the parents of teenagers that can't get by with anything under our watchful eyes. We are the grandparents of these children. Many 4th of Julys you will see three generations of WUGgers WUGging it at WUG, some years even four.

Uncle Ted, named after Grandpa Ted, left home at 14, more or less. The oldest of eight rambunctious kids. He worked on ranches and never outgrew his love of horses and the wild country. As his career took off, his outlet was the rigors of ranch work. Cutting dead trees, clearing brush, building fences, working horses, this kind of harsh physical labor was/is his preferred method of relaxation. He built a coral at WUG and kept horses there during the summer months. Rocky, Rigby, Star were the three I most remember. Uncle Ted taught us all to ride. He built a tepee on part of the land forty years ago, and we lovingly refer to this spot as "Tepee Island" these many years later. The tepee saw and heard things I'm sure would make your hair curl. It remained up for years until finally disintegrating under the harsh weather conditions of the high altitude of the Cascade Mountain Range.

Uncle Ted moved swiftly through the lower courts until landing as Chief Justice of the Ninth District Court of Appeals. He was considered for a Supreme Court nomination at least once. Many in the world of law and order have known of him, but a few years ago he became known world-wide for his highly controversial opinion on the Pledge of Allegiance. Is any of this ringing a bell? What happens when I say, "Under God?" On which side of this debate do you land?

"60 Minutes" did a profile on Ted during this time of heated outrage on both sides of the issue. The camera panned his Pasadena office and landed just long enough for the audience to read the words on one of his framed pieces of art hanging on the wall. "I should like to be able to love my country and still love justice," it said, quoting Albert Camus by one of his favorite artists, Sister Corita Kent.

I love my country. I love justice. I love that I am loved by a man that has done much to ensure my ability, and those in successive generations, to go on loving these two, simultaneously and inclusively. Grandpa Ted often said to those that questioned his strong belief in God, something along the lines of another Albert Camus quote, "I would rather live my life as if there is a God and die to find out there isn't, than live my life as if there isn't and die to find out there is." I'll get you a t-shirt with that printed on it, Uncle Ted. Then you'll have the complete set. Your father would agree with you. You've done him proud.

MY NBF

My new best friend, aka, NBF, is this hunky dude, Eckhart Tolle. He's Mr. Power of Now. I've been listening to his book, A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose.It's so profound I have to listen over and over again hoping that some seeds of understanding are finding their way into soil minimally rich enough to allow growth in my soul. My soul soil. I toss a Corona with lime on top of the soul soil occasionally, finding a day of intense mulching in need of an adult beverage.

My soul soil turned and worked all yesterday with this one: "The ego wants to want, more than it wants to need," and this one, "...it is an addictive need, however, not an authentic need."

www.kriyayoga.com defines ego as:

"The Ego is that part of your present personality and your wholesome being including your astral body, Causal body and soul that is different from God and prevents you from becoming instantly one with God.

The ego is the sum of many spiritual blockages that you collected during your journey far away from God-Union. The ego also consists of all the wounds and psycho-traumatic adventures you experienced during the present childhood and incarnation as well as during all previous incarnation.

Experiences made during separation from God may lead to traumatic wounds and shocks received and accumulated, while being consciously separated from your Divine home.

Increasing devotion to God and spiritual progress replace the Ego with Divinity - leading to and permanently increasing enlightenment of your consciousness.

Dissolving the ego means replacing your present personality with a God-made personality of everlasting Love and Bliss. During the process of dissolving ones Ego in the fire of Divine Love, spiritual ignorance is replaced by wisdom and God-consciousness.

The Ego can fight, feel pain and suffer. A fully enlightened soul may be aware of suffering, however never can suffer or feel any pain on its own."

I awaken this morning, tension between my eyes. Like a hamster on a wheel, my ego runs in vicious circles, trying to get ahead of what it can't possibly, my soul. Today's going to be a two Cornoa day, I can tell already.

TOP 10 THINGS YOU GOTTA LOVE ABOUT KUAN YIN


10. Her father wanted her to marry, she wanted to be a nun.
9. She is the Chinese goddess known as the compassionate rebel.
8. There is a form of healing in which the healer taps into the higher frequency of Kuan Yin and healing is magnified.
7. Her name translates to mean, compassionate listener to the cries of the world.
6. She is often depicted with a weeping willow branch. The ever-green aspect symbolic of her fertility, and love for others like a mother with her child.
5. Also like a willow, she has the ability to bend during the most ferocious winds and then spring back into shape again.
4. She has more names than you can shake a stick at, and they all have cool meanings.
3. She is sometimes a he, depending on the religion, she/he doesn't get too worked up about gender identity.
2. When she was born, her body glowed with an almost unearthly light so much so that the palace seemed on fire.
1. When she was sent to hell, she played music and flowers blossomed all around her - she turned hell into paradise by her presence.

All I'm sayin'...

TRACY GRAMMER

Not enough has been made of this one, the one with the gorgeous green eyes and even more gorgeous singing voice, Tracy Grammer. I've been fortunate enough to come to know Tracy, a bit anyway. There is much to know about her, and I look very much forward to that rich discovery. What I do know is her songs are stunning. I am particularly hooked on "Mother, I Climbed." By hooked, I mean to tell you I've listened to it, on repeat, for the last 2 hours. Yes, I take meds for that.

Bag i-Tunes and Amazon.com, Tracy doesn't see a dime, go straight to her website and order yourself a full meal of Tracy, Dave, Dave and Tracy, all of it.

I listened to Dave Carter and Tracy Grammer's song "Verdant Mile" a million times before finally Googling "Verdant." See how much she has to teach us? My vocabulary was even verdant* before I knew Tracy!

OK, enough already, place your orders and wait to be deeply fulfilled with what you will experience.

Tracy Grammer

Portlanders, don't miss her at "The Bite", August 27th!

*verdant \VUR-dnt\, adjective:
1. Covered with growing plants or grass; green with vegetation.
2. Green.
3. Unripe in knowledge, judgment, or experience; unsophisticated; green.

COUNTING BLESSINGS – pt. 2


Ruth calls me every couple of days and gives me the update.

Stranded in the middle of my house, standing like an island whose only attachment to the outside world is this phone cord, I try to take in the news.

“It’s not good, it is bad, the worst. Justin has a very rare, and very hard-to-treat form of leukemia,” Ruth tells me.

Twirling the oft-twirled section of my hair, the section dividing the left from the right on my head, I continue to listen.

Ruth’s voice breaks as she talks of cord blood. She talks of lots of things that I am grateful for having no reference from which to understand.

“Michelle and Joe are staying at the Ronald McDonald House by Doernbecher Children’s Hospital. They don’t know when they’ll be able to take Justin home,” Ruth tells me one day.

Only a few short days later she calls again, “Justin is going to die,” she manages to say between sobs. “They’ve done all they can do, and still, he will die.”

Willing myself to look up from the hardwood floor on which I’m standing, and moving my eyes to the sliding glass window, I look to nature to help me take this all in.

God? What’s going on here? Is this your plan that a child will die? I don’t understand…

At two years old, this boy’s life is over. He is unconscious, cords are all that keep him alive, keep him breathing. Cords tie this family close together.

Members of their church community, parents, grandparents, siblings, in-laws, nephews, nieces, everyone is called and they all show up. Like a parade, night and day there are people holding vigil with Joe and Michelle. I am one of those people.

As my precious son is about to turn one, these parents are going to lose their son. My son is hard, but he is loving, affectionate, with a gentle soul. My son is fully healthy and alive. My “burden” with him will go on for years to come. My burden no longer seems so heavy. I realize that day that being Wil’s mother is not going to be what gets me. What would completely un-do me is if something ever happened to him. I realize that there is no other loss in the entire world, in my whole life, that would even come close to the loss of losing him. My connection, my love, my purpose on this planet is so linked with him, I know, undoubtedly, that having Wil is not a problem, it is a privilege.

Joe and Michelle’s daughter,Brianna, the four-year-old, spends time at Justin’s deathbed. Suddenly she is ready to go, leave the room, and apparently, leave the hospital entirely. She tells Aunt Teresa she wants to go outside.

Half an hour later, when Aunt Teresa and Brianna return to the vigil, Teresa tells us, hushed voice, “She wanted to go outside so she could watch Justin go up to heaven.”

Fresh sobs break the mourning, the silence, the tension. In this cold, sterile, white hospital, the only color comes from our red, red eyes.

The doctors gently urge Michelle and Joe to say their goodbyes. They tell them it is time to turn off all the machines, let him go.

While Joe and Michelle make this excruciating decision, say the unspeakable to their precious child, the crowd waits outside in hall, near the elevators.

There’s not a lot for any of us to say. Mostly we hug, cry, and stand. There are so many of us there aren’t nearly enough chairs. We lean against the blank walls, we lean against each other. We can’t stand up straight, there is only enough strength to lean.

Our bodies, poised around the elevator. Anyone landing on this floor is here to join the mass. No one dares to leave, but more continue to come. As death beckons Justin, it calls us to stay close, to not break the container holding us all together.

After several minutes? Hours? Who knows, there is no sense of time in these situations, Joe and Michelle emerge. He is gone.

Far too soon there is talk of what must happen now. Are Joe, Michelle and their one remaining child just supposed to hop in their too-big cars and drive home to Creswell, over two hours away? Are they just supposed to leave their little boy there?

The doctor is in the hall talking to Joe, “I have my truck,” Joe says, “I’ll carry him out, put him in his car seat and drive him home."

This image is more than any of us can bear and a fresh round of sobbing begins amongst those of us standing vigil.

The reality has not set in for any of us, least of all this man that didn’t stop being a father of two just because one of them died minutes ago. He is not ready to relinquish responsibility. He is not ready to make that awful drive home, alone in that truck, with his son left behind, forever.

As the doctor assures him this won’t be necessary, none of us can wrap our hands around the other possibilities.

Finally, I must tear myself away from this heartbreak and return to my life. When I hear that the funeral will be on Wil’s first birthday, I know, I know. I will be celebrating a sacred birth the day these people share in a sacred passing.

I will never again look at my story with the same eyes. I know these people would trade my story for theirs in a heartbeat. A heartbeat. My son has one, theirs does not.

COUNTING BLESSINGS

I’m still trying to shake the last phone call when the next one comes.

Mom called just an hour ago to tell me her lover, Tony, has pancreatic cancer. He is going to die. The doctors have suggested Hospice, translation, the guy has less than six months to live. By the way, he doesn’t technically have a place to live, as he lives in a “5th Wheel” on his sister’s property. He’ll need to do his dying with Mom, in her house.

Sweltering on this hot, early July evening in Portland, I’ve got both kids in the bathtub, intended to both cool and cleanse, when Mom calls. Three-year-old Lucy is quite helpful when I put nearly one-year-old Wil in the tub with her. She makes sure he sits securely in his suction cup bottomed bath seat, the one he hates, but not as much if she distracts him. I wash her white blond hair, finally reaching some length at age three, when for so long is was just wisps. This further mesmerizes the hard to mesmerize Wil. If she shrieks when shampoo gets in her eyes, all the better. Hearing others squeal is one of his favorite activities.

Wil has so little hair on his big head it’s hardly worth washing, but I do. It’s got everything he’s eaten today mixed in up there, it needs to come out, it needs to come off.

Standing at the phone, a victim of its short cord and location in the center of the house, the “pressure cooker” we have named it, the pressure coming now from the other side of this conversation, 150 miles away. Now my mom needs me, too. She can’t be of help with the kids, she needs me to help her as she navigates new terrain. She is going to lose her fourth life-mate, but this time to death, not divorce. I am less than sympathetic and feel bad, but not that bad. I’ve been through so much with Mom. This one is all hers.

I see her in my head, standing in her kitchen, her mobility also limited by the length of the phone cord in her little home in Sisters. With her salt and pepper hair, cut into a perpetual “pixie,” very little make-up, a body that has never seen the inside of a gym or “worked out” ever, she has gorgeous, shapely legs and a face that defies her 66 years on this planet.
I recall the original conversation when Tony entered the picture two years ago.

“I met him in Al-Anon, but he’s a recovering alcoholic. I’m not sure why he was in Al-Anon, really.”

To pick up on YOU! He is a recovering alcoholic in need of an enabler. You’re perfect!

“I can’t find any detectable neurosis,” she prattles on.

That may be true, but I’m detecting a couple already.

“Listen, Mom,” I say in all earnestness, “if you are happy, I’m happy. I can’t go another round with you, however. I do not wish to meet him. I do not need to meet his family. I don’t care about his kids. I don’t want to know when his birthday is. I do not want to spend holidays with him. I choose to let this be between you and Tony. I am not getting involved.”

After the last two divorces and a couple of questionable boyfriends, I feel I have more than earned this right to forfeit attachment.

When the call comes tonight I stand on my original platform. I’m “out.” I have nothing left to give to her; there is simply no more of me she can ask. That doesn’t stop the asking, but it shuts down the giving on my part, from that phone call forward.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

With the kids out of the tub and watching a “Thomas the Tank Engine” video, the phone rings again. It is the other Ruth in my life. There are two. Both are mothers to me. One is technically my mother, but that role has been reversed for 34 years. The other Ruth is my high school, college and life friend, Ruth. With a much better head on her shoulders and steady, consistent behavior and advice, this Ruth is my preferred mother. She is not a taker, she is a giver. She is not needy and guilt-slinging. There are no hidden agendas with this one. There is no “projection,” nothing that this Ruth says to me is really all about her. Talking to this Ruth is the antidote to talking to the other one.

Ironically this Ruth also has salt and pepper hair, having begun her graying process in high school, rightfully earning the nickname “Mom” by all her friends, especially me. Ruth was everyone’s designated driver, “D.D.” being her other nickname. Tall and steady as an oak, this Ruth has a vast reservoir of sage advice and the capacity to listen without judgment. She is worth her 145 lbs. in gold.

This Ruth has another thing in common with my mom. She is from a family of eight. Where my mom is one of two girls with six brothers, Ruth’s family has the opposite. Ruth has two brothers and five sisters. With that many siblings, in-laws, nieces and nephews, Ruth’s life is so full she has very little time for outside friendships. She teaches first grade and is raising two young daughters with the help of her amazing, and stay-at-home husband, Chris.

Most of what Ruth shares with me, and always has, is the updates on all the family members. While their lives have experienced the usual obstacles like divorce, substance abuse and serious financial problems, Ruth’s has been nothing but steady.

Tonight she is calling to tell me about her brother, Joe’s, little boy, Justin. Joe and his wife, Michelle have four-year-old Brianna, and two-year-old Justin.

“Carrie, pray for Joe and Michelle. Something’s wrong with Justin. Michelle was giving him a bath and noticed weird bruising. She took him to the doctor and they are doing all kinds of tests. They might have to go up to Portland if they can’t figure out what’s wrong, here, in Eugene. It could be bad, Carrie, it could be really bad.”

After hanging up the phone I hug and kiss my children. Nothing here is bad, really bad. I am filled with gratitude.

To be continued...

WHAT'S THE BIG DEAL?

I spend my days writing, high in the desert of Central Oregon, surrounded by intense and active beauty. Birds of every family snack at my feeder. We've got quail, finches, blue birds, robins, hummingbirds, you name it. There are squirrels, long grey-tailed squirrels, much different looking than the ones in the valley that are brown with shorter tails. My friend, Terry, says squirrels are just rats with better outfits. I giggle each time I see the well-dressed rats run up the trees all around me.

There is a deer that comes to graze both morning and night. Right up to my kitchen window she comes, close enough to pet her, if I tried. I don't try. I am not inclined to break the agreement between us, "You don't bother me, I won't bother you." We've got a deal, and it works. This morning when I awoke she was right outside the bedroom window, resting in the early morning sun. She rests just a few feet from the yard's newest addition, the reclining Buddha. Apparently she saw he had the right idea, "Take a load off. Relax. You've got nothing but time," and she heeded his call to rest.

I resist his heed. "Relax." Why is that such an infuriating concept for me? What button is pushed deep within me that recoils at those five little letters either written or spoken? I know the answer. I find the button. Now it is my job to tease that button out until it no longer remains a button. New information and wisdom must replace well-worn tapes that still run, reel-to-reel in my stubborn mind.

The trees, mostly pine, grow in clusters. They grow tall and their trunks bend and blend together. As you look up to see where they end, over 100 feet above, you see the method to their madness. They are supporting one another up there, where the altitude gets a little too high and one might find oneself feeling faint. They've got each others' barks.

The deer, the well-dressed rats, the birds and trees all have much to tell me. I quiet myself and try to listen. I may even try to relax. There is a wind blowing through the curtains, perhaps I'll throw all caution to it.

WHAT'S UP WITH REINCARNATION?

The Harris Poll® #11, February 26, 2003

The Religious and Other Beliefs of Americans 2003

Many people believe in miracles (89%), the devil (68%), hell (69%), ghosts (51%), astrology (31%) and reincarnation (27%)


My fellow writer and friend, Kario turned me on to the Indigo Girls. Not only did she turn me on, she made me THREE amazing CDs of her favorite songs. I listen to them ad nauseum. There are so many on the mixes that sing my song, but I'm nutty cuckoo over "Galileo", nutty CUCKOO!

I've thought for years about the concept of reincarnation. When my brother married a Tibetan Buddhist I probed this belief deeply with her. For me, it makes sense. It makes a hell of lot of sense. I don't believe in hell as a place, but a state of mind, so I like to say things like "hell of a lot" just to bug.

As I dig into the joys of memoir writing, I feel ancient "stuff" coming up. It's GOT to be older/bigger than me, and if my dreams are any indication of my psyche, and I totally believe they are, they confirm this fact. Ancient symbols and stories are coming up for me dream after dream, night after night. I realize this is all a bit "woo woo", but that's OK, I AM a bit "woo woo". Being woo woo has led me to the studies of intellects that believe when a human "does the work" they are clearing the path for seven future generations, and purifying the path of seven previous generations. That's me, a little path clearer/purifier. No need to thank me, it's all part of my karma. BTW, I'm a full believer in karma, too. I define Karma as "reaping what you sow" from one life to the next. You kinda gotta go with the notion of karma if you're going to go with reincarnation, hard to pull the two apart.

Anyway, back to the Indigo Girls. Here's their great song about reincarnation. Something to chew on. If you take a bite and there isn't a speck of truth to it, spit it OUT. But if there's even the smallest taste of "aha", chew, swallow, and see what happens as you begin to digest.


GALILEO by Indigo Girls

Galileo's head was on the block
The crime was looking up for truth
And as the bombshells of my daily fears explode
I try to trace them to my youth

And then you had to bring up reincarnation
Over a couple of beers the other night
And now I'm serving time for mistakes
Made by another in another lifetime

How long 'til my soul gets it right
Can any human being ever reach that kind of light
I call on the resting soul of Galileo
King of night vision, king of insight

And then I think about my fear of motion
Which I never could explain
Some other fool across the ocean years ago
Must have crashed his little airplane

How long 'til my soul gets it right
Can any human being ever reach that kind of light
I call on the resting soul of Galileo
King of night vision, king of insight

I'm not making a joke, you know me
I take everything so seriously
If we wait for the time 'til all souls get it right
Then at least I know there'll be no nuclear annihilation
In my lifetime I'm still not right

I offer thanks to those before me
That''s all I've got to say
'cause maybe you squandered big bucks in your lifetime
Now I have to pay
But then again it feels like some sort of inspiration
To let the next life off the hook
But she'll say look what I had to overcome from my last life
I think I'll write a book

How long 'til my soul gets it right
Can any human being ever reach the highest light
Except for Galileo God rest his soul
(except for the resting soul of Galileo)
King of night vision, king of insight

How long
(till my soul gets it right)
[til we reach the highest light]
How long
('til my soul gets it right)
['til we reach the highest light]
How long

"People who fight with other human beings out of anger, hatred, and strong emotion, even if they gain victory over their enemies in batle, are not in reality true heroes. What they are doing is slaying corpses, because human beings, being transient, will die. Whether or not these enemies die in the battle is another question, but they will die at some point. So, in reality they are slaying those already destined to die. The true hero is the one who gains victory over hatred and anger." H.H. the Dalai Lama

Gotta love ol' HH, he just f'ing NAILS it, doesn't he? This especially rings true for me as I am deep in the process of process. I am writing my memoir and anger is springing up at every turn. "Let it spring up," I tell myself, "then gain victory OVER it!" I finally "get" that by gaining victory over anger I taking back the power that those that have angered me still hold over me. It's the ultimate revenge, just like they say, living a happy life.

More than anyone else, I am discovering anger at myself. No more useful than anger directed to another, or others. Again, I am letting it spring up, "making room for it," then gaining victory over it. That's the plan, anyway.

BE YOUR OWN DAMN SUNSHINE

"It's hard to be someone else's sunshine," Kimmy Pie (http://changing-trains.blogspot.com/) comments as we're discussing the "darkness" of one individual, and the "brightness" of another, two people caught in a swirling relationship dance.

Months later I can't get that comment out of my mind, she's so right, it's hard to be someone else's sunshine. Beyond the fact that it is hard, it's not even fair. We all know someone that is so bright and light, just thinking about them makes us feel better. We can't get close enough to them. We want what they have. We want that glow, that warmth, that light. We're willing to take theirs and make it ours. So often they are willing to give it away. They've got plenty you both agree, plenty to go around.

But really? Is there a finite amount of sunshine one has to give another? If the relationship is all give on one end, and all take on the other, won't there be a shortage inevitably? What happens when the one with all the light gets totally burned out? Who's winning then?

Obviously this issue strikes a little too close to home for me. I have only one person to blame, though, and that is myself. You can't be taken advantage of without your permission. Nobody can take what you're not willing to give.

How do you reconcile a lifetime of training that implores you to share and share alike? Do unto others as you would have them do unto you? Feed the hungry, tend the poor? How do you suddenly step up and decide a little selfishness is OK? A little less give and a little more take? A little less reflecting and a little more absorbing of all the sunshine?

"You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are grey
You'll never know dear
How much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away"

What kind of bullshit children's song is that? My ONLY sunshine? What a load to put on a child! I'll never tell you I love you, and don't abandon me! Key-Rist! Quite a burden. Quite enough. May I suggest the following adjustments to the song:

I am my sunshine
My only sunshine
I make me happy
When skies are grey
I'll always know me
How much I love me
I won't give my sunshine away

I feel sunnier already.

MERCY HIGH, MERCY LOW

This beautiful song runs in a continuous loop through my brain. I had the tremendous honor to hear Kate Power sing it live. I'll never forget the power of that woman's voice, so aptly named is she. This song was written for her daughter, Cathy, whom she gave up for adoption at age 18. At age 18 Cathy found Kate, and they have now been back in each others' lives as long as they were not. Mothers and daughters, daughters and mothers, tears fill my eyes just writing those words.

As I have the opportunity to really dive into the research and writing of my memoir, I see a theme emerging. A theme I didn't want to see. I thought my book would be about my evolution raising a son with special needs. The evolution of a marriage forced to be made or broken. While that is quite a story, there is a second story lying just below the surface. The business of my son's needs have made it possible, and defendable, that my daughter's needs have been made secondary. From the moment I became pregnant with HIM, my focus left HER.

The theme of "the other one" rattles around in me. I love the old expression, "Therapy is where you finally figure out it's not the parent you thought it was that you struggle with, it's the other one." So true of raising a child with special needs, too, you are FORCED to put their needs top of your list, the other child, being "typical", must assume a distant second place.

Guilt is not helpful. Mercy is. Mercy for the place she holds in the family, and the places she does not. Mercy for her brother, for truly, there but for the grace of God go she. Mercy for her mother for doing the best she could/can. Mercy for the daughter that wants more, deserves more, needs more, but there isn't "more". Mercy for herself, and myself, for knowing what we know and struggling none-the-less. Mercy. Mercy high, mercy low. Mercy me.

MERCY HIGH, MERCY LOW

I can't love you more than I do
True loving's hard to explain
You've seen me through
You see through me
You see the things that I do

Mercy high, mercy low; no goodbye, just hello
Come right here, don't you go away.
Here under sky on stepping ground
Take my hand, turn around
We'll waltz up sweet memories.

I do love you more than old shoes
More than the sun on the rain
There's nobody's got somebody
The way I got you on the brain

Mercy high, mercy low; no goodbye, just hello
Come right here, don't you go away.
Here under sky on stepping ground
Take my hand, turn around
We'll waltz up sweet memoires

Hold me, let's dance together
One, two, three;
Steps break like sudden feathers
And hearts break free.

I was so wrong, you were so gone
I never got over your name
Just to lose you forever, now we're dancing together again
Come right here; don't you go away.
Here under sky on stepping ground
Take my hand, turn around
We'll waltz up sweet memoires.

Hold me, let's dance together
You lead me.
Waves break in turning weather
And hearts break free

"Dad," such a loaded word for me. For 33 years I struggled with my dad. I found dads I liked better, but one by one they died. Nobody was left to re-teach me, or rather, help me un-learn my lessons on what a dad was or wasn't.

When I first met my husband, he was unemployed, living with his parents, and had a perm. I couldn't get enough of him. I chased him for six years until I wore him down and got him to marry me. I knew, "knew" knew, he would be a wonderful father. I had only to look to his own to be further convinced. His father was everything I'd every wanted in my own; gentle, kind, loving, patient, supportive and unconditional with his love. I knew my unemployed, curly-haired boyfriend had all that in him and a little bit more.

When I first told my husband I was pregnant, he was ambivalent. He didn't feel ready. Fortunately, our daughter was born and her first year of life was pretty idyllic. "We've got this parenting thing DOWN," we both thought. "We're pretty much the best parents ever. Look how our daughter sticks to a good sleeping schedule and our lives go on with nary a hiccup."

"We want two kids, right?" my husband said to me one night.

"Right," I answered.

Nine months later we brought our son into the family.

Overnight we went from having it all under control to having nothing even resembling control. Out-of-control, chaos, disequilibrium and frenzy defined our lives.

Trial by fire, they say, and that was the story for us. It'll burn you alive or all the crap will burn away, and only the purest and strongest will remain. All that was pure and strong in my husband remained. Every single belief he held sacred, every "way" of being was challenged and put through the fire. Great wisdom and deep compassion resulted.

Today my husband and I are in the middle of a carefully coreographed passing of the baton. I have been the at-home parent for 13 years, he has been the one "out in the world." Today my husband fully appreciates which of those two jobs is considered "full-time" and which one is 24/7, 365 x 13. It is my turn. It is his turn. It is our children's turn for a new sheriff in town. The town is ready for a new sheriff, the old one has grown tired and bitter. The new sheriff is ready to shake things up. There will be some job re-shuffling, some re-organization, some things I once considered crucial will cease to make the list. Some things I felt weren't worth the effort will make their way up the list. Some things won't change at all. My husband will say what he means and mean what he says. His boundaries will remain, despite resistance. His list of non-negotiables will remain firm, yet short. His heart will remain wide and soft.

I knew my husband would make a great father. I underestimated him.

Happy Father's Day, Love.

THE VALLEY

It is hot for this early in June. Normally the Willamette Valley doesn’t get its heat until the fifth of July, it’s almost a joke, but heat has come today, June 10th, 1996. With the heat has come its friend, humidity, adding weight to this impossibly heavy day.

Heavy within my own body, eight months pregnant, comes the oppressive pounds of now being the one to unravel the complicated tangle that is my dad’s estate. As I stand on the rolling lawn of the cemetery, one eye on the Catholic priest that we’ve asked to do the service, one eye on my toddler that wants out of Daddy’s arms and into mine, I feel as though I am the one being buried. Heavy. There is no other word to describe this day.

My young daughter’s hair blond and blowing, she struggles in my arms. There is no place for her to rest comfortably with her unborn brother already taking me farther and farther away from her.

“It’s OK, Honey, I’ve got you, “ I try to sooth.

Do I really have you? I have just become the head of my birth family. I am about to give birth again. You, my first born, is there enough of me to go around? Do I really ‘have’ you?

The breeze gives comfort to the small group gathered. After 74 years you would think a person could draw a crowd, but not this man. Of the few that are gathered here, even fewer can say they really knew him. Most of the people here are showing their support for me, for my brother, Michael, and for my mom, the wronged party.

Looking briefly from the eyes of the priest to those of the group, steady figures in my life look back. My godparents/aunt and uncle have made the long drive. My second mother, my mom’s sister is there. My closest cousin dropped everything and came down from Seattle, over five hours away. These are the same people that continued to ask about my dad long after he disappeared from their lives, my mom’s side of the family. Perhaps they, like me, believed my dad had enough humanity that he was worth respecting upon his death. Perhaps they were willing to forgive and forget all the stories of drunkenness, hostility, manipulation and abandonment they’d heard so many times. Perhaps they were just there out of duty and obligation, a guilty “must do”.

It seems wrong to wear casual sandals to your own father’s funeral. It seems wrong to be swollen and pregnant, burying a man named Wilson, carrying his grandson, Wilson. It seems wrong to see all these people that I know would rather be anywhere but here on this hot, miserable, heavy, heavy day.

TAKING THE A

“Not yet, not YET!” he yells as I see his jammied body whiz by on the way from his bedroom to the bathroom, quickly passing by my office. My computer screen tells me it’s 6:15 AM. I take my first deep, cleansing breath of the day.

The lid of the toilet bangs, indicating it is up, and so is he. Another day has begun, officially.

The toilet lid bangs back down, he flushes, jabs his fingers under the running water to pacify me, then runs the four feet back to his bedroom, grabbing the blue and red car-shaped pillow off his bed.

“There,” he says as the pillow lands on the floor next to my writing desk. “NOW you can wake me up! You cannot wake me up until I pee. I have peed, so now you can wake me up! Come and wake me up, Mom! Come and wake me up!”

I pick up the car pillow, take another big breath, and walk next door to his room.

“WHO IS AWAKE IN HERE!? WHO IS AWAKE IN HERE?” I bellow.

The red, white and blue of his quilt covers the mound that is him. Fake snores come from the wiggling mass. I crawl next to him on the bottom bunk, lift the quilt from his face, and cover my nose and mouth with both hands.

“The breath! The breath! Not the breath!”

“Haaaaaaaaa” he exaggeratedly exhales.

“The breath! You’re killing me with the breath!” This time I pretend to gag.

Eyes crusty with allergies, sandy blond hair poking up from the crew cut, pushed askew from all the positions his body has been in on the bed since 8:30 last night. He sneezes twice, wiping his nose and eyes along the blue sleeve of his pajama top, leaving a white, shiny trail behind.

“Zero, blast off, one more time!” he informs me.

I put the bad breath joke through its paces until after “one more time” I lie writhing next to him, having all but died from the halitosis. He laughs so hard there is no sound. He cannot recover from laughing long enough to draw air.

“OK, OK! I am awake! Watch me get ready! Watch me put on my socks! Watch me go downstairs! Mom! Are you watching me? Don’t forget to keep watching me!”

To the stairs we go, he with the NBA pajamas, size eight on his nearly eleven year old body, the waistband still too loose and landing south of its designated part of the body.

I have on any combination of pajama bottoms and t-shirt. Different mornings, different combinations, but all mornings blur into one. My love mug in my right hand accompanies me through the rigors of our routine.

“Wait! I need to bring Sam! Sam? Where are you, Sam? Are you awake, Sam? It is time to go downstairs and have breakfast, Sam!”

Having found the pink Build-A-Bear named Sam, he is ready for the next phase of the morning routine.

“Stand behind me on the stairs, Mom. Do not go ahead of me. Wait for me, Mom. I will go down and you will follow me on the stairs. Do not go ahead of me, Mom. Wait for me.”

He sits on his bottom at the top of the stairs.

“You stand on that stair, Mom. I will go down and you will go down, but you cannot go down until I go down, OK, Mom? You will wait for me to go down, OK?”

As we descend the twelve wooden stairs together, he on his bottom, scooting down excruciatingly slowly, me impatiently standing behind him, he continues with the routine.

“Is your body awake yet, Mom?”

“Not yet, Love, not yet. My body is not all the way awake yet.”

“But you have your coffee! Why is your body not awake if you have your coffee?”

“The coffee hasn’t kicked in yet, Love.”

“When will your body be awake Mom? Will it be awake at 6:30 AM PST? Will it be awake at 9:45 AM EST? What time will your body be awake?

“It will be awake at 7:55 AM”

“But that is when I will go to school, Mom! How come your body will wake up after I go to school? Will your body wake up before I go to school? I want your body to wake up before I go to school! I want your body to wake up at 10:00 AM EST. Promise your body will wake up at 10:00 AM EST? “

“OK, I promise.”

Finally having reached the main floor, we walk together into the kitchen.

“Yea, Mom! Who is the best mom? I am so happy your body will be awake at 10:00 AM EST. Thank you for following directions, Mom! You are good at following directions, Mom! I am going to give you a star. Can I give you a star, Mom?"

Already standing before the art supplies, both cupboards flung open with a thud, knobs dinging the adjacent doors, paper pulled from the bottom of the stack, at least 20 extra pieces other than the one intended landing on the floor, he grabs a red one, his favorite color.

The 9 1/2” x 11” piece of paper soon filled with a single “A+”. The A more of an upside down V, the crossing horizontal line so high and so tiny, it hardly constitutes an A. The + sign larger than the A. There is no more room on the paper for any more commentary. His hands have done their best to indicate what his brain is telling them. This is his best.

GOING BIG WITH IT



PLUS



EQUALS




Nothing like having a child with special needs to help you pound out what's left of your ego-driven ways.

My super athletic, super coordinated, super all American boy, husband, thought he'd have a little boy just like him someday. Well, he got one that LOOKS just like him alright. Darling dimples, same astigmatism, glasses, tall, skinny body. Problem is my husband hasn't found a sport yet he can't instantly excel in, and my nearly 11-year-old can't stand on one foot without falling to the ground.

My almost 5 foot son is still riding a bike with training wheels. The bike is TINY. We've put training wheels on a much bigger bike, but he won't touch that one with a ten foot pole. As my husband said, that's almost worse, having a full-sized bike with training wheels. So, my son continues to tool around the neigborhood on a bike intended for a toddler. My husband struggled with this up until recently, and then came to the same realization he always does eventually, "Who cares?"

As though Rojo energetically sensed his resignation, he upped the ante. He is now "The Ice Cream Truck" on his bike, and that requires that he carry my blue purse in his hands from which to distribute the ice cream.

I've cautioned my husband to resist accepting this too soon, or God only knows where it'll go from here.

ELEVEN YEARS AGO TODAY...

... I got the call, "Dad died."

... I drove to Eugene, 2 hours south, 8 months pregnant, toddler left with Grandma, and met with that reality.

... I took hold of the purse strings, so elusive to me for 33 years.

... I began to settle a chaotic estate, while putting my inner chaotic state on hold.

... I pushed away tears, anger, resentment, relief, and put one foot in front of the other.

... I realized grief would have to wait. I expect to start working on that grief any day now.

LITTLE ME VS. REAL ME

Been struggling lately as it's come to my attention that not one, not two, but three men I know are not happy with me at ALL. How can someone as sweet and delightful as me, stir up all this dust? "Little me", as Eckhart Tolle calls our ego-driven self, is very defensive! How dare they! They are deflecting! They have so much of their own stuff to deal with, they are dodging that in favor of attacking me! While that may be true (Little Me is convinced it is) it doesn't make the situation any prettier. The fact remains, I have inadvertantly, and with the best of intentions, hurt those men. They are hurt. I am super "right", but they are super "hurt", and I am working double overtime to want their peace above my righteousness.

Little Me and the soulful part of me are waging war. If my apology to them is not sincere, what is the point? Why even aplogize for something I so believe was pure in its intent? Why even apologize to men so dense and ignorant they have to make me wrong to justify the feelings within themselves? How am I any beter than that? Aren't I doing the exact same thing? Who am I to call them dense and ignorant? Who do I think I am? And around and around they go, Little Me and Real Me, chasing each other in a race that can only be won by surrendering, allowing the need for compassion to overtake the need for validation. Allowing the Real Me to take comfort in extending the olive branch of peace to those engaged in battle with me. Allowing the Real Me to douse Little Me's voice out with huge pourings of love and peace. Love, love and more love. Period.

GETTING THE PINK

In my friend's, Kathleen, family, there is an expression oft used, "Getting the pink."

Story goes, one of her young nieces began singing to herself one evening after a particularly busy, kid-filled day, "I didn't get the pink, didn't get the pink, didn't get the pink all day..." over and over to herself with a sad, pitiful look in her eye, and pathetic tone in her song.

"What's wrong, Honey?" one parent eventually asked.

"I DIDN'T GET THE PINK ALL DAY!"

They were eventually able to determine "the pink" to be a pink Otter Pop (frozen snack). Apparently the day was hot, lots of kids in and out of the house coming in for Otter Pops, and well, you can see the tragic ending to this story. She got purple, green, blue, red and orange, but alas, no pink.

Years later, Kathleen's family uses the term when anyone is feeling left out, not important enough, or just receiving sub-par levels of attention in general.

The inverse also is true, one can get "plenty of pink." It's even possible to get "too much pink." I've been thinking about all of this as I process the needs vs. wants "thing". Feeling recognized, validated, noticed is such a basic need. God love the person that is able to state this need so well! Getting the pink goes nicely with my other favorite stolen expression, "Not enough has been made of..." invoked when what was said/done/felt/etc. did not get the proper level of response. Really, when you think about it, they are just nicer ways of calling bullshit!

Consider your pink needs today, and with gentle speech demand that they be met, understanding in the end, nobody will truly meet them but ourselves.

WHAT DO YOU NEED?

The first time I heard that the opposite of love is not hate, but fear, I was stunned. That was over 20 years ago, and since then I've come to embrace that fanatically, one might say. Wherever there is "hate", I try to determine what is the fear behind that. Finding the fear isn't the challenge, it's determining where the fear lies on the hierarchy of needs.

If you believe what Maslow taught us, that one cannot move "up" until foundational needs are met, it's quite helpful in becoming more compassionate and patient with others.

When Jennifer and I conduct our writing workshops, we must first create a safe "container". We believe that until the basic needs at the foundation of the pyramid are in place, transcendence is impossible. People, mostly women, come to us to write their story, to get it "out" of their bodies and minds, and to heal from whatever trauma(s) have taken place in their lives. Ultimately, what we want more than anything, is to facilitate the transcendence of trauma, or to get people on their way towards that transcendence. We believe writing memoir to be tremendously efficient in doing so.

We also believe there is a great responsibility to pad that transcendence process with soft places to land, deep inner resources from which to pull when the road to transcendence gets bumpy. And we try to do that in 2 1/2 days. Obviously we cannot be the first stop, nor the last on this path. We are just a "rest stop" along that highway. A place to pull off from the road and re-group. Clean out all the "litter", freshen up, have a snack, and move forward. Ever forward.

From Falling Awake I've learned how to ask for what I want. From Jennifer I've learned how we can't get what we want until our basic needs are first met. Needs, then wants. Needs, then wants. Needs, then wants.

I taught elementary education for 12 years. Over those years I saw the distinct trend. In schools where the population of students had a low level of basic needs met, more time in the school was spent on meeting those needs, than in formal "education." In many schools in our prosperous country, food, clothing and shelter are provided. Food, clothing and shelter. Nothing more basic than that. Yet without that first level on the pyramid "handled", how can we even pretend those students are coming ready to learn?

And so as I settle back into life as a mother and wife, 3,000 miles away from my last gig as a teacher, I wrestle with this conundrum. How do we offer both a place to meet needs and wants? How do we make people safe, let their story pour out, teach them a few nifty writing techniques, and prepare them for the backlash after publication? How do we serve without being self-serving? How do we teach anything but what we most need to learn ourselves?

TEACHING "THE CITY" A THING OR TWO

They say New York is the city that never sleeps. While that appears to be true, there is definitely some serious sleep taking place in room 804 of my lovely Manhattan hotel. I'm on a one-woman campaign to turn the tide. I take my sleep seriously, and do some of my best work in an unconscious state. It is there that I am with "my people" from the other realms. I derive clarity, receive helpful messages, and am at the very least, well-entertained.

Some tell me they don't dream. We know that if that were true, they'd be psychotic. That is the real bummer of sleep deprivation, the loss of that dream state of sleep. Wanna make someone go nutty cuckoo, wake them throughout the night for months on end. If you've ever been a new mother, you know what I'm talking about. Torture with a pretty name, post-partum.

So, we've established that we all dream (those of us still with one breath left between us and the funny farm). What happens is we are not remembering our dreams. The trick is to grab whatever ghost remains before your monkey mind starts doing its thing. In that moment before sleep turns to "What I have to do today," take ahold of that tiger's tail, and give it a swing. If all you can grab is a couple of tiger hairs, start with that.

Then, consider that Carl Jung was right, we are all aspects of our dreams. Re-run your dream, better yet, say it outloud or write it down. If you have a patient friend/lover/roommate, tell them. After each word, phrase or sentence, say, "Part of me." You'll freak yourself out, I'm warning you, so go easy.

Let's walk through the scary places of my mind together...

I am a child (part of me) returning (part of me) to my aunt's house (part of me). All I want to do is put together a familiar puzzle (part of me). Everyone else (part of me) wants me to do what they want (part of me) but I won't rest (part of me) until I get the jigsaw (part of me) completed (part of me).

That's just a snippet from one of many dreams I've had recently. Some nights I am the only person on the planet that can fly (part of me). Nobody else is impressed (part of me).That is both my favorite and most frustrating dream. Other times I'm being chased (part of me) by bad men (part of me).

When you have a particularly troubling dream, it can be quite a challenge to see yourself as your own perpetrator. Whatever parts of the dream bring you great excitement or fear, spend extra time on. Wherever there is a lot of energy, there is great wisdom/lessons contained.

Today we return to The City of Roses, Portland, Oregon. We leave behind the city so nice they named it twice. We leave behind the city of so many broken dreams, and we leave behind the idea that it's up to someone else to make our dreams come true.

FEEDING THE DEMON

There is a Buddhist practice called Chod. It is meant to cut away fear, cut out ego, get to purity. Part of the practice involves the feeding of demons, and it's all gory, weird and scary. Unfortunately/fortunately, it was also one of the first Buddhist practices I learned. You feed the demons to the point of completion, until they are full. Again, lots of gory, icky terms and notions are used, but the essence is lovely. What you resist, persists. What you feed gets full, and will stop gnawing on you.

When my daughter was diagnosed with OCD, we learned the same damn thing. By trying to re-direct her, soothe her, rationalize with her, it only created more anxiety and obsessiveness.

I recently attended a workshop called Falling Awake . It is a life-changing action plan. Specific skills are taught for getting what you WANT out of life. Now, I know what you're thinking, "If I get what I want out of life, won't that take away from everyone else getting what they want, and isn't that Selfish with a capital S?"

No. Self-sacrifice, at least in my case, only causes resentment. I can give myself totally away to the needs of others, in the name of selflessness, but guess what they "get", grumpy, anxious, pissed-off Carrie. Nobody likes that Carrie, especially me.

By "feeding the demon", giving into the wants of ourselves and others, we are actually liberating ourselves. The key is to determine what underlies the want. Obviously, if we give our kids everything they THINK they want, we'll raise spoiled brats. Ick. Hate that. The trick is determining what they WANT from what they want.

Most of the times the want is to fulfill a basic need, love, acceptance, assurance companionship, safety or validation. Occasionally the need is more primal, food/clothing/shelter.

What do you want? Really?

WTF, MRS. LITTLE?!

My son, nearly eleven, has never been able to listen long enough to have a book of any length read to him. Last night I decided to push the envelope. Desperately wanting to share the bonding experience of reading great literature together, I carefully pulled Stuart Little from the dusty shelf of his bookcase.

"It's short," I thought.

"It has enough pictures scattered in to hold his attention," I held.

"We'll read one tiny chapter a night. This will be great. I'm the most amazing woman on the planet to have thought of this brilliant idea," I boasted quietly to myself.

And so I began...

"When Mrs. Frederick C. Little's second son arrived..."

"WTF? Mrs. Frederick C. Little????? Mrs. FREDERICK????" I fumed internally.

RIght away Rojo vibed in and said, "But what is HER name?" (And he's the one with "disabilities".)

Choosing to get over the fact that Mrs. Little is only the tiniest bit surprised to have given birth to a mouse, and not a human, going big with the whole "fantasy" genre, I graciously allow her to seemlessly accept this alarming development, and go on.

"...One day when Mrs. Little was washing out the bathtub after Mr. Little had taken a bath..."

"Rojo, WHO should be washing out the bathtub for Mr. Little after HIS bath..." I quiz.

"Ahem. OK, let's resume," I coax myself.

"...she lost a ring off her finger and was horrified to discover that it had fallen down the drain.

'What had I better do?' she cried, trying to keep the tears back." Mrs. Little, beseeching of her husband and son, the only ones with problem solving abiitities in the book, besides the rodent, of course.

Enough. Book slammed shut, my ire fully invoked, I turn to Rojo and say, "Let's read 'Spongebob.'"

FALLING AWAKE

I am flying high from a weekend away with significant others. My husband and I were able to retreat to Central Oregon together to celebrate his birthday (48), our marriage, burn the past and embrace our future. We were double blessed to have our favorite couple friends there, too. The number of "happily marrieds"' we know is few. Dismally few, but understandably few. Marriage is hard. Brutally hard. Ridiculously hard. Temptingly quit-able.

Eckhart Tolle, Power of Now says, "Never have relationships been as problematic and conflict ridden as they are now. As you may have noticed, they are not here to make you happy or fulfilled. If you continue to pursue the goal of salvation through a relationship, you will be disillusioned again and again. But if you accept that the relationship is here to make you conscious instead of happy, then the relationship will offer you salvation, and you will be aligning yourself with the higher consciousness that wants to be born into this world." I e-mailed that quote to my husband recently, he replied simply, "choir".

I'm going to be turning over the rich mulch from this weekend for awhile, but for now, a quickie Top 10...

TOP 10 THINGS I LEARNED AT "FALLING AWAKE":

10. What do I want? Figure that out.
9. Disconnect "wants" from "expectations"
8. Practice without reproach
7. The past holds guilt, the future, anxiety, the present is all we have
6. Being happy and having what you want is not sinful, it's your duty/obligation to pursue with abandon
5. The things I love about myself, are the things that my husband loves about me, and vice-versa
4. What we love about each other has nothing to do with how we look or what we own, or have "accomplished"
3. Wouldn't trade my life with anyone's
2. We're all connected, with far more in common than not
1. It all boils down to love.

NOT ENOUGH HAS BEEN MADE ABOUT CARE BEARS


My soon to be eleven-year-old son, Rojo, went with me to Jennifer's about a month ago. He played in her backyard just long enough to find a 3" plastic Care Bear Jo had left in the sandbox.

I didn't know Rojo even knew what a Care Bear was. We don't have ANY - correction, didn't have any - at our house. No mention of Care Bears, no videos, no NOTHING. My daughter had mercifully skipped that whole cutesy B.S.

"Where is my Care Bear?" Rojo asked in the car coming home.

"You don't have one, Honey."

"But I need a Care Bear." (He never asks for ANYTHING.)

Upon coming home he went through his 2,001 stuffed animals, determined to find "his" Care Bear. The exercise proved futile.

That weekend he spent some time with my mom. When she brought him home, behind his back hid "his" Care Bear, "Lucky."

"See, Mom? I DO have a Care Bear! His name is 'Lucky'! You were wrong, Mom! I DO have a Care Bear! See Lucky? See my pink, boy Care Bear, Lucky? See his rainbow? See? I DO have a Care Bear, Mom, you were wrong! Why were you wrong? Why did you tell me I don't have a Care Bear?"

"Because until Grammy took you to Toys R Us 1/2 an hour ago you DIDN'T," I thought, but was smart enough not to answer. I knew that Rojo being Rojo had some divine plan for his new pink, boy Care Bear, Lucky.

Lucky went to school in Rojo's backpack for several days in a row. Lucky came out each day at "sharing time" and each day Rojo shared his pink, boy, Care Bear with the other fourth graders in his class. My husband and I shuttered for a minute, thinking what the other kids must think, but then said, "what the hell..." and allowed it to continue. He'd already "shared" Elmo, Big Bird and Ernie, not to mention his girl-turned-boy doll, "Tarzan" a million times already. What was the point of ending our humiliation now? The horses were long gone from the barn.

Monday our dear family friend and long-term Rojo advocate, "Rosie" came over after school. She is a frequently requested house guest by both kids, and my personal favorite. All three feet of Rosie are packed with personality and wisdom beyond her years. I'll never forget her mom telling me Rosie came home from kindergarten one day and said, "Mom, Rojo is a lot smarter than you think. He can recite the alphabet backwards and count to 100!" I was ready to adopt her on the spot. She has not let anyone mess with him, ever, she's got his back, front, and both sides around-the-clock.

While Rosie was stuck watching Rojo play an odd mix of Go-Fish and solitaire, she told me all about Rojo sharing Lucky for the 10th day in a row.

"Some kids, well actually two kids, were kind of laughing at Rojo when he shared Lucky. They said, 'He has a CARE BEAR??? A PINK Care Bear???" I just gave them a look and said, "Yes! He has a Care Bear? What's so funny about that?"

I looked at Rosie and told her again how lucky we all are to have her as Rojo's good, good, friend.

"Well it IS a Catholic school, you know, that behavior is unacceptable! We are supposed to be kind to everyone! Rojo IS kind to everyone, it's not OK for others not to be kind to him!"

"That's right, Rosie," I agreed, "you tell 'em!"

"Oh, I do! I don't even care if they get mad at me. Their parents should be teaching them this stuff, but since they AREN'T, I guess, I'll just do it!"

"I love you and everything about you, Rosie!" I enthused.

"Just doing my job," she smiled.

As she languished on the couch watching the Go-Fish/solitaire game patiently, as directed, I just had to snap her darling picture. I called her mom later to ask if I could post the picture and this story on my blog, I told her all about it.

"Sure," she said, "and you ought to know, her brother's nickname for her is Care Bear."

Of course it is.


This from the Care Bear website...

"Cheer Bear is a very happy Care Bear who helps others see the bright side of life. She will sometimes even do a cheer to help make someone happier. Wherever she goes, Cheer Bear wears a symbol of hope and happiness—a rainbow.
Caring Mission: Cheers people up.
Symbol: Her rainbow symbol represents hope.
Personality: Happy and upbeat.
Character Quirk: Sometimes communicates through rhyming cheers.
Color: Pink.
Best Friend: Wish Bear
Relationship Challenge: Grumpy Bear - she's always trying to cheer him up!
Motto: When in doubt, SMILE!"

The first time I met her I knew it would not be a one-time meeting. There was a soul connection. I also knew it wouldn't happen overnight. There were issues of trust to overcome. That was OK, I could wait. Soul connections do not live within the boundaries of conventional time.

I was in her home. HER home. The place where my favorite words were put into my favorite books. I'd read thousands of books from thousands of authors, but now I was in the home of THIS writer.

I waited.

Someone else feeling similarly asked to see her office, just to "spin around" in the room where the magic took place. The magic of inspired words being put on a blank page, transforming the page and the souls that read them.

My head said, "Me too! I want to spin around in that space!'

My soul said, "Fear not. You'll see that space. You'll more than see that space, but for now, it is not your turn. Be patient. Good things come to those that wait.

I waited.

Together we took out the trust issues, one by one, and shot them all to hell.

Friday I moved my office into that office. THAT office. Our office.

Good things DO come to those that wait. And believe. And trust. And are more tenacious than dogs with a bone.

Woof.

TOP 10 BEST THINGS ABOUT MOTHER'S DAY '07

10. My mom spent it with my brother
9. No green Jell-O
8. We combined two May birthdays into the celebration
7. Check, check, check!
6. My mother-in-law is the easiest to please person on the planet
5. The party wasn't at my house
4. My husband gave me the nicest card in the world
3. Rojo gave me candy and then ate it all
2. Woo-Who gave me homemade coupons to clean her room and babysit her brother
1. It's over for another year

(Maybe if he were hanging from my bar, I'd re-consider...)

21 DAYS TO ESTABLISH OR ELIMINATE

Head ducked, I walk into the laundry room.

Head ducked, I walk out.

Head ducked, I return to the laundry room.

Head ducked, I walk out.

Almost a year ago my husband installed a chin-up bar in the doorway of the laundry room, so my son could work on his upper body strength. It worked. He hung on that thing every time I went in or out of the laundry room, roughly 4 million times a week.

About two weeks ago I stopped banging my head on the bar, ALWAYS forgetting it was there, finally learning to duck.

Three days ago, realizing my son hadn't hung on the damn bar for months and tired of the ducking/banging, "Oh Yea!" moments, I removed the bar.

I never fail to duck now. Never.

They say it takes 21 days to establish or eliminate a habit. We won't get all judgmental and label habits "good" or "bad", we'll just call them what they are, habits. Habits can be very useful and productive, or not so much. Often, what begins for the "right" reasons and is super helpful at the time, outgrows its usefulness/helpfulness, but the habit remains. I'm trying to tease out those habits that are no longer useful. I'm starting with the ducking and moving up the list from there.

HELPING THOSE THAT WON'T HELP THEMSELVES

"Hello?"

"Hi! It's Carrie. I know you are both sick as dogs and haven't been out of the house in days. I am going to Safeway right now, what can I bring you/"

"Oh nothing. We're just fine."

"Really? You have everything you need?"

"Oh yes, we're good. Really. Don't worry about us!"

"How about juice?"

"Well, yes, we could use a little juice."

"Orange?"

"Sure, orange would be great."

"Any particular kind?"

"Oh no, it doesn't matter."

"Do you like it to have pulp? Extra pulp? No pulp?"

"Oh we'd prefer it to not have pulp."

"OK, what else?"

"Oh no, just the orange juice."

"How about bread?"

"Well, we did use our last slice yesterday..."

"OK, I'll get bread. Whole wheat?"


"Whole wheat would be fine."

"Would you prefer something else?"

"Oh no, whole wheat is fine."

"Do you like a particular kind?"

"No, just whatever's on sale."

"Do you even WANT whole wheat?"

"Actually..."

And so it went until $50 later I'd delivered all the things they were completely out of.

ROUGHLY SPEAKING

Jenny Rough was the first blogger I met face-to-face. Can't believe that was only 14 months ago, I had only heard of blogs then, never read one. Jenny's was my first. You always remember the first!

Now Jenny is kicking some freelance butt and writing all over the place. Her newest venture is this. If you're into healthy eating, and c'mon, who *SHOULDN'T be, you'll be glad you stopped by!

* I am having a hard time keeping my fingers on the keys due to the greasy residue left over from my MSG, Red Dye #5 laced snack food I'm consuming while writing this...

YOU CAN BLAME IT ALL ON ANNE FRANK

My mom's a PK, Preacher's Kid, and I don't mean minister, I mean PREACHER. Baptist. Say no more. Although not raised Baptist, my brother and I were raised Protestant Christians, as opposed to Catholic Christians, which everyone knows aren't "real" Christians, because they worship false idols and are hung up on Mary.

My brother was the first to jump ship. He first went deep into Native American traditions. Eventually he found Buddhism and a community of Tibetan Buddhists in the unlikely town of Cottage Grove, Oregon (population 10 - or close enough). There he befriended a Buddhist monk that had immigrated from a refugee camp in India. This monk knew a girl that Michael, my brother, might like. 1 1/2 years of e-mails and phone calls later, my brother married this wonderful woman, Sonam.

Even my dyed-in-the-wool Christian mother couldn't help but be moved by the authenticity of this Tibetan Buddhist daughter-in-law. Such profound love, wisdom, compassion, peace and forgiveness we'd never seen before.

Meanwhile, I was involved in a women's book group. We read Anne Frank. While discussing it, one woman, perhaps my greatest teacher ever, said it was a shame Anne Frank and the other Jews that perished in the Holocaust are all now burning in hell. Had they only given their lives to Jesus, they could live in His perfect peace in heaven. That's it. I snapped. I had read Anne Frank at least twice prior. I'd dragged my husband to Amsterdam when visiting Europe, for the sole purpose of seeing her hiding place. I had read countless other books on the Holocaust. There was NO way anyone was going to get me to agree that these people were now burning in hell! Excuse me? Check, check! The Holocaust WAS burning in hell. Literally! WTF?

From that night forward I couldn't "be with" my life-long religion. It was great, but it was not enough. Too much of it never added up for me. I thought it was me, a rebel, until I realized eventually that there were many others with the same snags circling the globe, and had been, for thousands of years. What a relief.

I don't know what to call myself now, so I say I'm "everything" which is quite different from being "nothing." Someone else called this thinking Universalism. Another called it poly-religious. I don't really care to be labeled or put in a box. I'm fine with the fact that all good is good. There is one truth, but many paths. Different strokes for different folks, and all that stuff.

I do know that those with whom we most disagree, have the most to teach us.

BACK TO BUSINESS

A few people asked me how I could go from talking about my time with the Dalai Lama, to Top 10 Grade School Come-Backs. Well, the answer is quite simple, I'm a NUT! My mind zips and zags a million times a day, never resting too long at any one place. The Buddhists call this "Monkey Mind". I prefer to call mine, "Gorilla Mind" because, like with all things, I believe my situation is worse/bigger/better/more interesting at least. Well, the old me, that is. To say that I have been profoundly changed by my limited time with ol' HH (His Holiness) is an understatement, and nobody has EVER accused me of having the gift of understatement!

The friend with whom I shared the whole experience and I have been talking about it a lot ever since. As the days progress, so does our processing and deeper integration of the experience. I think merely by being in his presence, you can't help but be changed. You'd have to be a rock not to feel that man's "ju-ju", no matter where you were in the gigantic auditorium. I'd be willing to bet the good vibes wafted several miles in all directions.

My friend had to miss a few minutes of one of his teachings, when she returned, she said, "What'd I miss? Did you get enlightened?" We've had a couple of chats about that since then, too. I hear it is possible to be enlightened, "just like that." I don't know, I think my "Everything is on a continuum" theory might also apply here. If you look just at the word, "enlightenment", what do you see? Light! Full of the light. It seems to me that some humans come to this life already more full of life than others. I wonder what a shock to the system it would be for someone with very little light to achieve enlightenment, "just like that." Could they even take it? Would the light be so blinding and burning they couldn't stand it?

Being a born and raised Oregonian, it takes very little sunlight to have me reaching for my sunglasses (although I'm switching to a maroon visor as soon as I can get my hands on one). Would the same be true for enlightenment? Wikipedia defines it this way: Bodhi (Pali and Sanskrit. Lit. awakening. Trans. enlightenment) is a title given in Buddhism to the specific awakening experience attained by the Indian spiritual teacher Gautama Buddha and his disciples. It is sometimes described as complete and perfect sanity, or awareness of the true nature of the universe. After attainment, it is believed one is freed from the cycle of Samsāra; birth, suffering, death and rebirth.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enlightenment_(Buddhism)

I'll continue to muse/brag/offend/incite and I hope, inspire, as I continue to work through what it is I saw and heard, and what it is I now want to BE.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, WOO-HOO!


Today I became a mother,
Thirteen years ago,
If you don't believe me
There are many grey hairs to show.

"Woo-Who" is what we call her,
Rojo named her that.
Always his big sister,
It's one of her many hats.

Some others she wears,
Are granddaughter and niece.
Cousin, baby sitter, friend,
Everyone gets their piece.

She's a stong-minded one,
Won't back down from a fight.
She knows when you're wrong,
And she knows when she's right.

Generous, thoughtful and funny,
She takes after her mom.
As anyone can tell,
She is quite the bomb.

Wouldn't trade her for any,
She's one-of-a-kind.
She's my little girl,
I've got quite a find.