Gambler, hot head, hot shot who destroyed 3 planes prior to finally being shot down. I knew men who flew hundreds of the same missions without such drama. He keeps showing us that he only knows how to fight. He is old, he is unwise; he is always, was always, will always be about the show. The bravado. Which is why he picked Palin. No substance.
Vs.
Cool, perfectionist, highly intelligent, excellent manager who has executed at a high level his entire life. He will continue to do so.
No Drama/Vote Obama!
Hillary's Wall Street Journal piece does justice to her intelligence and compassion. Stop the usurous rise in interest rates, and this will help save homes. She will be well used in Apricot's cabinet.
Back from Alaska. Pretty sites, not beautiful; except for the glaciers. Topaz blue, and a wonder to behold. Cruise food becomes dull. I need to be able to cook for myself.
Since home, I've begun to feel once again, an ever so slight shift in my perspective regarding my emotional self.
I am bearing the losses better, without as much depression. Lexi is with me daily, helping me realize that I must keep on dancing.
September 27, 2008
September 09, 2008
Callie Sighs
I wrote this sometime in July 2008, about 1 month before Callie died.
You are 13.5 years old this month. "Old as dust" as you were recently called by the young man leaving for work in his Hummer. (Oh his carbon footprint.)
The sighs you emit sound as old as dust.
Sighs of contentment began emanating from you at about 5 or 6 years old. At least that's what I took them to be. You would heave a lengthy sigh when we snuggled in for sleep, or when I'd pick you up in my arms, bring my face close to yours and kiss you.
You are sighing now; or is it purring? Like a cat; each breath in and out contains a sound that can only bespeak utter contentment.
Your sighs, these sounds are purposeful; as if you want me to know that you know you are loved.
Your sighs contain the collective love, affection, holding, feeding, daily walks, running away explorations, racoon adventures, even deer attacks of your 13.5 dog years.
I am so very grateful (KOSZONOM) that you grace my life.
You are 13.5 years old this month. "Old as dust" as you were recently called by the young man leaving for work in his Hummer. (Oh his carbon footprint.)
The sighs you emit sound as old as dust.
Sighs of contentment began emanating from you at about 5 or 6 years old. At least that's what I took them to be. You would heave a lengthy sigh when we snuggled in for sleep, or when I'd pick you up in my arms, bring my face close to yours and kiss you.
You are sighing now; or is it purring? Like a cat; each breath in and out contains a sound that can only bespeak utter contentment.
Your sighs, these sounds are purposeful; as if you want me to know that you know you are loved.
Your sighs contain the collective love, affection, holding, feeding, daily walks, running away explorations, racoon adventures, even deer attacks of your 13.5 dog years.
I am so very grateful (KOSZONOM) that you grace my life.
August 29, 2008
Callie's Death
Another loss. I put Callie down on the 26th. She'd been vomiting for the previous 24 hours. The nite of the 24th the bed was vomit soaked. Washed all bedding and put it back together on the 25th. Then on the 26th, at 4AM, I awoke to more vomiting. Bed was a mess again.
I held her, she was weak, listless. She was suffering.
I found a vet in Kingman, AZ; got to vet at 6AM and by 8AM I had her put down. X-rays & ultrasound visualized a large abdominal mass which had finally grown so that it blocked her small intestine, thus the vomiting.
She was a trooper to the end. On the 24th, we'd walked approximately three miles together, from Grand Canyon's "Trailer Village" to the El Tovar hotel and back.
She kept up with Reilley and I as usual. Reilley in the lead, me in the middle and Callie trudging behind, but always keeping up. Was it the altitude (7k feet) that finally kicked the ab mass? I'll never know.
She was so incredibly special. And I'm eternally grateful that she did not pass sooner. I could not have taken it last year. Not at all, after Lexi's & Gan's passing.
Koszonom.
I held her, she was weak, listless. She was suffering.
I found a vet in Kingman, AZ; got to vet at 6AM and by 8AM I had her put down. X-rays & ultrasound visualized a large abdominal mass which had finally grown so that it blocked her small intestine, thus the vomiting.
She was a trooper to the end. On the 24th, we'd walked approximately three miles together, from Grand Canyon's "Trailer Village" to the El Tovar hotel and back.
She kept up with Reilley and I as usual. Reilley in the lead, me in the middle and Callie trudging behind, but always keeping up. Was it the altitude (7k feet) that finally kicked the ab mass? I'll never know.
She was so incredibly special. And I'm eternally grateful that she did not pass sooner. I could not have taken it last year. Not at all, after Lexi's & Gan's passing.
Koszonom.
August 06, 2008
Marion Rosen Workshop
I am at a Marion Rosen Workshop, February 2008, in Berkeley, on the table taking my turn as one of the class "guinea pigs". There are six or seven “work stations” in the room, each with a willing subject on the table, and an experienced Rosen Method practitioner demonstrating the power of this work to the others in the subject’s group.
I'm crying softly as the practitioner is touching me. Rosen work asks the practitioner to use simple touch, unadorned, without expectation of eliciting a response. It is not massage or bodywork meant to “do something” to the receiver. It is just simple human touch, meant to help the receiver feel what is stored in their deepest cellular memory. It is this touch, hand to skin, given without ego, without oils or flourish or expectation, which unlocks feelings which have remained hidden for years, nay lifetimes. The miracle of Rosen work is truly the miracle of Life itself. The ability to store, and when the ground is ready, to release.
Still crying softly, the practitioner attempts to elicit the cause of my tears. She gently asks general questions. I don't respond, and just continue my soft crying. I don't respond partly because I can't talk, I’m overwhelmed with feeling; and partly because I truly don't know, in that moment, exactly why I'm crying. I am flooded by an overwhelming gratitude to be there, on the table, being touched.
The loss of one’s soul mate, life partner is devastating on so many levels.For me, the loss of daily physical touch, given and received with love, was one of the most difficult adjustments to make. Even if Margaret and I were upset with one another, we would always take time to sit and talk, her feet in my lap, and my touching, stroking those precious feet and toes. Her reaching her hand out to me, touching. Flesh to flesh, human contact, touch.
I'm asked to turn on my back, which I do, and she ever so gently touches my right thigh. I suddenly feel as if I've been jolted back into the deep pit of grief. This pit which enveloped me for the first 18 months after Margaret died. The pit of Hell. The gentle hand on my thigh, and suddenly I am again being dragged through Hell, inch by painful inch, and I let out an ear piercing howl which quieted the room.
Then I heard a distinct, other-worldly voice from above, clearly state, just one word: ACCEPT. Then I shook with heavy sobs.
I heard Marion say to the hushed room, “Go on, go on, with your work.”
The skilled practitioner came to the side of my head, speaking softly yet clearly, telling me that I was alright. I was alright. She caught and held my gaze, no fear in her eyes, only a clear signal to come back to the present. To be here now. I did, and my sobbing slowly subsided into tearful whimpers, then just gulping in air.
I slowly got dressed while the other women in my group huddled around me, protective, loving, concerned. I never spoke a word. I never told them what had gone on internally for me. But I knew, clearly, as clearly as I know anything, that I still hadn't Accepted Margaret’s death. Nor my sister's death. My dearest sister who died less than six months prior to Margaret’s sudden passing. I knew I still had work to do. The Universe had spoken unequivocally.
On the flight home, after the workshop, I pondered: what does it mean to Accept? I thought I had. I thought I was done with that portion of grieving. Thought I was well on my way to the creation of my new life. But I was wrong.
I came home to a broken, leaking hot water heater which was beginning to wreck havoc in the closet which housed Margaret’s sympathy box. The two hundred or more cards, letters, and expressions of sincere sympathy from our friends and family. The water was just beginning to seep into this cardboard box.
I grabbed its bottom, pulling it towards me, getting it out of the closet. As I hurriedly pulled the box to the safety of dry carpet, out rolled two polished rose quartz stones.
These beautiful stones had been given to me by a wise Mendocino County therapist, Mohasabe Shalom, after Margaret died. I had tossed these stones into the box while packing for my move to Southern California.
"Comfort" was carved into the smaller stone.
"Acceptance" was carved into the larger, two inch stone.
ACCEPTANCE was the stone which popped out of the box and landed literally at my feet.
If I had any doubt at all about what the Universe wanted me to work on, this rose quartz stone clearly shouted Her intent.
In the next few months, I daily pondered: What does it mean to Accept?
Why haven't I yet accepted their deaths?
Now, almost six months after that fateful weekend, I am still “in process” of Acceptance and coming to comprehend what this means.
And I am filled with eternal Gratitude for my life. I am humbled by The Power which has ALWAYS shown Herself to me. Which has always instructed me in my life's lessons.
Koszonom.
I'm crying softly as the practitioner is touching me. Rosen work asks the practitioner to use simple touch, unadorned, without expectation of eliciting a response. It is not massage or bodywork meant to “do something” to the receiver. It is just simple human touch, meant to help the receiver feel what is stored in their deepest cellular memory. It is this touch, hand to skin, given without ego, without oils or flourish or expectation, which unlocks feelings which have remained hidden for years, nay lifetimes. The miracle of Rosen work is truly the miracle of Life itself. The ability to store, and when the ground is ready, to release.
Still crying softly, the practitioner attempts to elicit the cause of my tears. She gently asks general questions. I don't respond, and just continue my soft crying. I don't respond partly because I can't talk, I’m overwhelmed with feeling; and partly because I truly don't know, in that moment, exactly why I'm crying. I am flooded by an overwhelming gratitude to be there, on the table, being touched.
The loss of one’s soul mate, life partner is devastating on so many levels.For me, the loss of daily physical touch, given and received with love, was one of the most difficult adjustments to make. Even if Margaret and I were upset with one another, we would always take time to sit and talk, her feet in my lap, and my touching, stroking those precious feet and toes. Her reaching her hand out to me, touching. Flesh to flesh, human contact, touch.
I'm asked to turn on my back, which I do, and she ever so gently touches my right thigh. I suddenly feel as if I've been jolted back into the deep pit of grief. This pit which enveloped me for the first 18 months after Margaret died. The pit of Hell. The gentle hand on my thigh, and suddenly I am again being dragged through Hell, inch by painful inch, and I let out an ear piercing howl which quieted the room.
Then I heard a distinct, other-worldly voice from above, clearly state, just one word: ACCEPT. Then I shook with heavy sobs.
I heard Marion say to the hushed room, “Go on, go on, with your work.”
The skilled practitioner came to the side of my head, speaking softly yet clearly, telling me that I was alright. I was alright. She caught and held my gaze, no fear in her eyes, only a clear signal to come back to the present. To be here now. I did, and my sobbing slowly subsided into tearful whimpers, then just gulping in air.
I slowly got dressed while the other women in my group huddled around me, protective, loving, concerned. I never spoke a word. I never told them what had gone on internally for me. But I knew, clearly, as clearly as I know anything, that I still hadn't Accepted Margaret’s death. Nor my sister's death. My dearest sister who died less than six months prior to Margaret’s sudden passing. I knew I still had work to do. The Universe had spoken unequivocally.
On the flight home, after the workshop, I pondered: what does it mean to Accept? I thought I had. I thought I was done with that portion of grieving. Thought I was well on my way to the creation of my new life. But I was wrong.
I came home to a broken, leaking hot water heater which was beginning to wreck havoc in the closet which housed Margaret’s sympathy box. The two hundred or more cards, letters, and expressions of sincere sympathy from our friends and family. The water was just beginning to seep into this cardboard box.
I grabbed its bottom, pulling it towards me, getting it out of the closet. As I hurriedly pulled the box to the safety of dry carpet, out rolled two polished rose quartz stones.
These beautiful stones had been given to me by a wise Mendocino County therapist, Mohasabe Shalom, after Margaret died. I had tossed these stones into the box while packing for my move to Southern California.
"Comfort" was carved into the smaller stone.
"Acceptance" was carved into the larger, two inch stone.
ACCEPTANCE was the stone which popped out of the box and landed literally at my feet.
If I had any doubt at all about what the Universe wanted me to work on, this rose quartz stone clearly shouted Her intent.
In the next few months, I daily pondered: What does it mean to Accept?
Why haven't I yet accepted their deaths?
Now, almost six months after that fateful weekend, I am still “in process” of Acceptance and coming to comprehend what this means.
And I am filled with eternal Gratitude for my life. I am humbled by The Power which has ALWAYS shown Herself to me. Which has always instructed me in my life's lessons.
Koszonom.
July 24, 2008
I am always surrounded by 3 strong women
Three strong women reside in my brain, my heart, my soul, my movements and tastes. Lexi, Gan, my Mother. I have ready access to their wisdom, if only I remember to ask and listen. Koszonom.
Gan. She sought to surround herself with beauty from and in all aspects. She created a palace for our home. She painted each wall a different color; blending color exquisitely with the art, the furniture, the oriental rugs, the decorations, room by room. I would often stare down at our living room, viewed from my bedroom loft, and just wonder at her ability to create beauty.
I found her 3.5" x 5.5" graphed moleskin book and what had previously been for her eyes only, suddenly opened up to me after she died.
So I read the following that she wrote (and spaced this way):
Gan. She sought to surround herself with beauty from and in all aspects. She created a palace for our home. She painted each wall a different color; blending color exquisitely with the art, the furniture, the oriental rugs, the decorations, room by room. I would often stare down at our living room, viewed from my bedroom loft, and just wonder at her ability to create beauty.
I found her 3.5" x 5.5" graphed moleskin book and what had previously been for her eyes only, suddenly opened up to me after she died.
So I read the following that she wrote (and spaced this way):
Art is
one of
those
things
we
simply
must
do
so that
one of
those
things
we
simply
must
do
so that
our
spirit
may continue
to
grow
grow
And in the bottom right corner she drew a heart with a spiral in it, topped by a 3 pointed crown.
She had the spirit and soul of an artist. She was able to use that creativity, her heart, her acute awareness of others and of herself, to help her clients become secure in loving themselves, thus grow and change.
In our 18 years, it wasn't until the last 2 that I saw her artistry applied to gems, particularly the opal.
She loved opals. The slow, precise, careful grinding of this delicate stone, when done correctly, with love, with care, then yields the fire, the light, the brillance and color of this otherwise rough looking rock.
She gave me her alpha polished opal, and Steven, the jeweler who allowed her to indulge her passion for opal polishing, gave me her omega. I've not worn either. I can't yet.
Lexi. She (I've started to cry again and will have to return)
July 15, 2008
Why Are Women Girls and Men Not Boys
The above question is rhetorical. We all know why. Sadly.
Today I assured two dear friends of their intrinsic worth; regardless of the amount of money they are able to bring to their lives, the talents they utilize to garner this money, the size of their body, their education level, their appearance, their genetic background. Just the fact of their being a living soul makes them worthy of unconditional love. Simple.
Difficult to believe. But one must.
Today I assured two dear friends of their intrinsic worth; regardless of the amount of money they are able to bring to their lives, the talents they utilize to garner this money, the size of their body, their education level, their appearance, their genetic background. Just the fact of their being a living soul makes them worthy of unconditional love. Simple.
Difficult to believe. But one must.
July 11, 2008
Shrub Boy
Molly Ivins had it right. He is Shrub boy. He is an unrepentant addict and plays the role of the clown. He dances, shuffles with affectation when lined up to be photographed, he plays the Saudi princes' clown and pet. He proclaims the fight for Freedom and Democracy, yet he begs oil from a nation where women are nearly enslaved and cannot vote. And sells them 20 billion dollars of arms.
He is incapable of being a man, incapable of making decisions because of his dearth of knowledge. He needs to be liked, if not loved; but the ones who love him, do so for his cuteness, his boyishness. They love him as we love children. For he is useless as a man. He is not a leader and he got to where he is on the coattails of his narrow, bureaucratic father and his family's wealth. A father who helped create an anti-American rebel movement in Central America. By giving away guns and money. The same way we helped create the monster middle eastern terrorists. They began with our guns and money. They grow with our guns and money and their hatred for us.
He will always be a shrub because he has never done his work. Crass religion without self knowledge or awareness was his cheap avenue to end his drug abuse. He made no amends. Has never examined anything to its depth; has never admitted being wrong. Has the arrogance and narcissism of the unrecovered addict.
And now he is tired of playing the king. All of our natural disasters have made him weary, and shed light on the fragility of a system, an infrastructure which has not been given even bare maintenance. Despite hundreds of cries for repair. No, the shrub wishes to hide in Texas and cut and hack livings shrubs down to nothing. He's had enough of this game which he never prepared for, always skipped out, had no history of fortitude and completion; and he never developed the basic curiosity about others, other cultures, other people, to be even a mediocre player.
I'm thinking of shrub as the financial markets unwind from their gorging of greed. Is it no coincidence that these past 8 to 10 years have spawned legions of the super rich, the wealthy and the wealthiest. The pigs have been gorging at the trough of unfettered creation and sale of new "financial instruments"; new things to purchase for investment. Intricate creations whose only value derived from the minds of math wizards; bought and sold, given Moody's Best Ratings; valued by the hedge funds which made money from air. And the ultimate Ponzi scheme played out; with the boys at the top who were selling in hedge funds getting fattest.
Didn't we learn our lesson with the Savings & Loan bailout, with Enron, with Tobacco, with Haliburton, with Blackhawk, and now with Bear Stearns and an entire financial industry complicit in destroying people's lives. But always getting bailed out with our tax payer dollars. Boys who squander our money, making their money on ours. The money business, industry, has its own codes, language, expectations, privileges and discriminations. Oh, we were fooled once again into thinking that they would behave. That they would be happy with the large salaries society bestows upon them in exchange for trusting that they will take care of our money, our future, our children's future. That they wouldn't do it again. That they would behave. That their codes and our expectations would keep them honest. But it hasn't and it never will. And this time it's huge.
So I've been thinking of shrub's ineptitude all day long. Do we have a Franklin Delano Roosevelt in our midst? Will Apricot (Barack in Magyar means apricot) Man pull it out?
He is incapable of being a man, incapable of making decisions because of his dearth of knowledge. He needs to be liked, if not loved; but the ones who love him, do so for his cuteness, his boyishness. They love him as we love children. For he is useless as a man. He is not a leader and he got to where he is on the coattails of his narrow, bureaucratic father and his family's wealth. A father who helped create an anti-American rebel movement in Central America. By giving away guns and money. The same way we helped create the monster middle eastern terrorists. They began with our guns and money. They grow with our guns and money and their hatred for us.
He will always be a shrub because he has never done his work. Crass religion without self knowledge or awareness was his cheap avenue to end his drug abuse. He made no amends. Has never examined anything to its depth; has never admitted being wrong. Has the arrogance and narcissism of the unrecovered addict.
And now he is tired of playing the king. All of our natural disasters have made him weary, and shed light on the fragility of a system, an infrastructure which has not been given even bare maintenance. Despite hundreds of cries for repair. No, the shrub wishes to hide in Texas and cut and hack livings shrubs down to nothing. He's had enough of this game which he never prepared for, always skipped out, had no history of fortitude and completion; and he never developed the basic curiosity about others, other cultures, other people, to be even a mediocre player.
I'm thinking of shrub as the financial markets unwind from their gorging of greed. Is it no coincidence that these past 8 to 10 years have spawned legions of the super rich, the wealthy and the wealthiest. The pigs have been gorging at the trough of unfettered creation and sale of new "financial instruments"; new things to purchase for investment. Intricate creations whose only value derived from the minds of math wizards; bought and sold, given Moody's Best Ratings; valued by the hedge funds which made money from air. And the ultimate Ponzi scheme played out; with the boys at the top who were selling in hedge funds getting fattest.
Didn't we learn our lesson with the Savings & Loan bailout, with Enron, with Tobacco, with Haliburton, with Blackhawk, and now with Bear Stearns and an entire financial industry complicit in destroying people's lives. But always getting bailed out with our tax payer dollars. Boys who squander our money, making their money on ours. The money business, industry, has its own codes, language, expectations, privileges and discriminations. Oh, we were fooled once again into thinking that they would behave. That they would be happy with the large salaries society bestows upon them in exchange for trusting that they will take care of our money, our future, our children's future. That they wouldn't do it again. That they would behave. That their codes and our expectations would keep them honest. But it hasn't and it never will. And this time it's huge.
So I've been thinking of shrub's ineptitude all day long. Do we have a Franklin Delano Roosevelt in our midst? Will Apricot (Barack in Magyar means apricot) Man pull it out?
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