Randomly organized thoughts on a randomly organized virus. #1

March 29,2020

First morning thoughts.  What if we were never able to hug one another again? Maybe one of us died, maybe we will have instilled within us a fear so deep that we are terrified to reach out, literally.  What if COVD-19 continues to mutate at warp speed, becoming more and more virulent and destructive?  What if?  The list of thoughts and probabilities seems endless.  Already, it looks like people feel they will run out of food.  Despite shelter-in-place orders here on O’ahu, grocery store parking lots are at near capacity.  Are all these people getting “essentials?” I wonder. Take that back:  I am certain they are not. The militant in me wants to enforce stricter guidelines, but I see now how laughable that is; I have the blood of greed on my own hands.  Perhaps the only difference is that I’m aware of it.  It is not easy to sit with fear, to invite it in, to have a chat.

I had played out the trajectories in my own mind, before the cases mounted.  I wondered why widespread (even random) testing wasn’t carried out weeks ago to get an early handle on this.  Or why we kept letting planes go in and out to save our economy instead of our asses.  And now, I see those far smarter than I have come to the same conclusions, likely before me, but I am only reading about it now.  If we fail at social distancing, and COVID-19 spreads and infects relentlessly, let those who have recovered and have shown immunity go back into the workforce to perform the essential duties. Train them, pay them, do whatever it takes.  At the very least, protect those who are out there putting their lives on the line. 

I also woke up wondering why we are the only species on the planet that needs toilet paper.

Just a Little Halloween Poison

For years, I’ve avoided ingesting things I couldn’t pronounce. Stuff like methylchloroisothiazolinone. Because of this, my children have suffered permanent emotional damage. In my attempts to protect them from harm, they were ridiculed by classmates for bringing unidentifiable lunch items, viscous brown smoothies with blackstrap molasses and brewers yeast, and other nutritious but horrifying-to-look at treats. One daughter, to this day, tells some of these tales to friends as I, the elderly mother, sit silently with a sheepish grin on my face. The tale of the swollen ticks, for example. 

Food coloring was on my “you can’t eat this” list. Not wanting to be extreme, I allowed sweets and candies from time to time. Here’s what would happen: A bag of M&Ms would be placed in a small container and soaked in water until the color came off. I’d say, “Look! THIS is what you could have ingested!” They would look at the grayish-brown effluvium as it journeyed down the sink. The M&Ms would then be carefully laid out to dry on paper towels. When ready to eat, they looked a bit like swollen ticks, I do admit now. But back then, I was doing my due diligence to protect my children. 

By child #4, Lunchables were found in everyone’s lunchbox, as were pre-packaged Capri-Suns and unhealthful goodies galore. I suppose I gave up. I figured if three children had not died from alar-tainted apple juice, preservatives, chemicals, additives, and other unseen evils that other people gave them despite my threats and ranting, I might as well relent. And every one of my children is alive today, resurrecting stories of their strange, eccentric mother who often did outlandish things. 

I admit, I have a serious sweet tooth. And, I like sales. After-holiday sales are my favorites. Just yesterday I hit AJ’s Fine Foods, an upscale market in Tucson. As I entered, there was a decorative Halloween table full of half-priced treasures. I don’t care if I’m 61, I’m 6 inside when it comes to Halloween. Like a pirate discovering treasure, I surveyed my find. I could have gone overboard if I had carried too much loot away, so I took only a few precious items: ghoul bobble-head and blood-filled syringe pens for work; two kid-packs of Jelly Belly’s; two small scented bat candles; owl napkins. I reluctantly put back the Frankenstein paper plates, the Dia de los Muertos skeleton musicians (painful), the eyeball light-up ring. 

On my drive home, I busted open a package of Jelly Belly’s. These little flavorful jellybeans have always been on my Do Not Eat Ever list. Why? They are too pretty, too tasty, too unnatural. The other problem is that I am not a delicate eater. I should suck and savor, I know that. But I am more like a man when it comes to food. I ingest, inhale, wolf down. 

I should know better.  I was raised in Bel Air, CA and had every last ounce of proper training to appear lovely in public.  What started out innocently as charm school ended up as my entrance to society as a debutante. It grated against me then and now. I wasn’t Barbie, for God’s sake. I was and am the nameless, genderless rebel. I wanted to break the rules, go and eat candy in the woods, hold small bug and animal funerals, get dirty, be a kid. I tried my debutante-best to ration the beans by pouring the little packets into my lap, popping one at a time when I changed gears. I got to coconut and it hit me. What if…a little bit of poison is what keeps health in balance, wards off disease, safeguards sanity? What if? Seriously. A little arsenic cures syphilis. Homeopathy uses lethal plants and poisons in an infinitesimal dose to cure disease. So why not coconut jelly belly’s? 

It made me feel much better about my decision. Relax. That one thing you thought might kill you could actually save your life. One never knows. If we live long enough to become wise, we understand that we will never fully know. And that’s why it’s okay to eat Jelly Belly’s. Because they taste good and make you happy. Just buy the kid-pack. Salud!

Blurring Distinctions

Fact is often stranger than fiction and for providers of hospice care, that distinction is sometimes blurred. Few hospice nurses would argue that strange phenomena are simply part and parcel of the work. In many ways, these unexplained occurrences tell us that there are worlds within worlds and worlds beyond them. Hospice nurses are privy to the sacred and the profound.

Mr. C had come to us severely jaundiced. As in most cases of end-stage liver disease, he was partially obtunded, and his skin itched in a big way. He still had a sense of humor and I could tell that once upon a time he must have been a fun guy. During provision of bodily care, I asked him to hold my hand as I assisted him to roll on his side. He opened his eyes and fixed them on mine, saying with a weak smile “I’m going to hold on to your hand forever.” At some point I told him he needed to give me my hand back so I could care for other patients. The following day, Mr. C. was no longer able to communicate with us; he had entered through the doorway leading to death.

Hospice work can be very stressful and can take a toll emotionally, physically, mentally, and sometimes psychically. Mental health professionals would caution nurses not to take their patients home, metaphorically speaking, but to disengage when they have finished work for the day. But what happens if the patient won’t disengage?

Tossing and turning, reviewing possible causes of why sleep won’t come and steal me away, I whittle away hours on end until 4 o’clock am arrives. Was it the coffee? Did I eat too much of the wrong thing? Was I worried about something I needed to resolve? I spawned a checklist of possible sleep inhibitors and came up empty. I finally relegate my agitation to the full moon, get up, and make myself some eggs.

I return to bed and try again to sleep. It was then that I saw the image of Mr. C holding onto my hand. Remembering his words, I gently gather the light energy around us and bring it down and through our hands, releasing his grasp. I was obviously desperate for sleep, having conjured up this image as causation for my insomnia. Clearly, I had reached the bottom of my checklist barrel. Soon after, however, I fell into a deep sleep.

Reporting for duty the following day I learn that Mr. C had died. “When?” I ask. “4:55 am,” I am told. The line between the physical and subtle worlds is once again blurred. All it takes is one bold stroke from a brush laden with water from the Ocean of Existence that makes no such distinction.

I Vow

I vow to love you
But I am afraid
My heart and soul are wounded
The only team sport I play
Is on a field far from home


I only play to win
I cannot go the distance with you
Only watch from the sidelines
Making occasional comments or
Racing in to change a prop or two
I cannot truly participate
For what would happen if I bound my soul to yours
And lived as if two were one?
No, the risk is too great
I will pretend instead I have nothing to offer
And keep secure the illusion I am free

I vow to be with you
Until somewhere I’d rather be takes me away
My commitment is steadily unstable
Like vapor, my interests rise and dissipate
I make you wrong for wanting more
I minimize your intelligence and worse
Your evolution

People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones
This is true
The stones I throw shatter and destroy me
I am impoverished
Yearning to be alive in the deepest ways
I walk with fear as my companion
Abandoning courage for false security
I cannot love with abandon
Ever counting the return on my investment

I have built a compound
Of lofty ideas that will never take root
While thirsting for waters of love actualized
And out of my emptiness without you
I embrace the unthinkable

Gone Away

“I’m going to make myself an aged sharp cheddar and vine-ripened tomato grilled cheese sandwich. I’ll slather it with real Dijon mustard from Dijon, France, and pair it with a Black Butte Porter.”

And so ends another day with this kind of intimate self talk, inaudible to me and to the swarm of spirits that surround me. I hope to hit the pillow by 3 am, so I can rest enough to meet the demands of the following day with grace and presence.

As a hospice nurse, I hand off people to the arms of the Invisible, but some days, I work other places in the hospital. Yesterday evening was such a time. She was nearly 90, but still beautiful. Her blindness had come on suddenly, unexpectedly, and no cause could be found. The ashes of her former world gave rise to other worlds, most of which terrified her. I hear in report she had tried to find a way out: a telephone cord wrapped around her neck, pillows in smothering places, to name a few. I had to remember she was the one out of 20-odd patients in my care who could not see me. I remembered to speak gently, to touch softly, as I approached her. I hoped that my voice would find her somewhere, and that we would meet in a place that mattered.

Our first encounter went well enough; she opened her mouth as I spilled in the pills and raised a cup of water to her lips. I poured in an indeterminate amount of water to wash them down. Too much, and she would choke on the water; too little and she would choke on the pills. She swallowed. She now knew my name and the sound of my voice. She knew the feel of my hand upon her shoulder. I hoped that this would be the beginning of something positive. The psychiatric team had come earlier in the day to “make a deal” and get her to agree to not harm herself while in our care. I always felt that odd. I would say, “Sure, yes, I promise” then, proceed as planned. Are promises to strangers binding? Maybe better to say,

“Look, if you try to kill yourself and succeed, it is going to create a big problem for me with no end of paperwork and maybe, depending on how you kill yourself, I and countless others will be traumatized, maybe even for life. And all you will have done is created more of you, more people walking around with unresolved trauma. If you were alive, you’d have company, but you’d be dead, watching from a cloud and believe you me, you’d feel bad then. You’d feel real bad, and sad, and you couldn’t do anything about it because you’d be dead. So, don’t kill yourself, it’s just not okay. Hey, can you HEAR me?”

Later, one of the other nurses came out to find me. Mrs. L was not responding. Her hands were clenched in tight little fists, her eyes squeezed shut. I managed to get my hand in hers, as she relaxed her fingers ever so slightly to welcome this stranger she barely knew. I cast an invisible golden line into the ocean of her being to hook her soul and bind it to mine, to reel her back in, but it fell into empty waters. She had gone away. With eyes tightly shut, hands clenched, breathing even and regular, vital signs stable, she had gone away. I told her it was okay, that she could come out again, that it was me, the night nurse, and all was safe. But what did I know? The plain fact of the matter is I do know. I have gone away. I have successfully deadened all that is inside and outside of me. I have been stone cold dead and by the grace of the Invisible, have thawed from my winter of terror and re-blossomed in the spring of possibility. It is alchemy of the highest order. Some go to never return. Others visit willingly. Most are swept inside by a current they cannot control. We would all go away if our world became frightening enough.

We took her to the emergency department. Their attempts to bring her back into our world were the same as ours, only harsher. She only gave them a faint grimace and went back the way she came.

It's Still Winter Somewhere

Like a 5 year-old kid on Christmas Day, I awoke with an awe and wonder uncapped and ready to explode. Barely light, my siblings are still soundly sleeping. I take a peek into their bedroom to make sure. The door is wide open and I need a body count. Perhaps one of them is up to share in my joy. I counted—one, then two lumps under the down comforter. Careful not to wake them, I slowly retreat; gin martinis and a full-bodied Italian dinner the night before had set them into a deep rest.

I realize I am idealizing winter. But this white blanket of finery that decorates everything it touches has touched me to the core. It’s as if I am the very same as the barren tree, held up only by grace and the roots of my years of living. But I am also the great white blanket of compassion that covers the earth, the strong, majestic peaks of the snow-covered range, the infinite stretch of possibilities on the horizon.

There is a wholesome silence here, the very same silence that is of me. We resonate together, that great vast silence and my own. It comforts me and reminds me I am whole. Feeling like sacrilege, I take gentle steps as I make my way through the snow. Fear of falling on ice makes me aware that not all winter conditions are friendly. Some of them insidiously catch us unaware. But this newly fallen snow beckons me.

The sound of timid crunching underfoot is the only sound heard as I make my way toward the pasture. The horses are lined up at the trough, looking pretty much the same as they always do. No bird makes its presence known.

Out on the open plain a single cow moos somewhere in the distance: the light is coming.

Disappearing Act

Today is Easter Sunday, 2010, a day celebrated by Christians worldwide as the day when Christ rose from the dead. I appreciate the fact that he is able to do this conveniently on Sundays, each and every year, as most people have the day off.

This the ultimate disappearing act, an act where the mystery of God is revealed: Jesus dies, disappears, reappears, and ascends. This part gets really confusing. There seem to be many different accounts of how this actually happens, and we are missing plenty of details.

I have no idea why today is not called “Disappearance Day,” or DD for short. The stone was rolled away and the body of Jesus wasn’t there. Plus, even if he were raised from the dead on the 3rd day it wouldn’t be on Easter Sunday if he died on a Friday. Count the days: Friday to Saturday is one, Saturday to Sunday is two.

Resurrection and ascension are two different things. Being raised from the dead is resurrection. Ascension is where Jesus returns to heaven to live with God on a permanent basis. There is an apparent span of 40 days or so in between the two during which time Jesus “appears” to his followers. And then, poof, he’s gone.

I find it interesting that no Gospel gives a definitive accounting of the resurrection of Jesus; we are left to come up with our best guess. Nor are there precise accounts of reappearances after his death. Or why he chose to appear to some and not others. We still have this query today, over 2000 years later. What we do seem to know is that there was an empty tomb.

As was customary of the time, women would visit the tomb on the first day of the week. “Wait a second,” they said. “Who rolled this humongous stone away?” “Hey, look! He’s not here!” Apparently sometime shortly after that, Jesus appears to at least one of them (Mary Magdalene) and instructs her to inform his disciples that he is alive and well.

Jesus had a fondness for women, in very fact (if we are to believe in any of this at all), he appeared to them first. He loved Mary Magdalene, his mother, Mary, Aunt Elizabeth, Grandma Anna, and so on. Yet the Christian tradition has successfully oppressed women since his death. Well, actually before, during and after. This makes me like Jesus all the more. Blood drips out of my pores when I see so-called Christians treat women, or anyone for that matter, in a way that would have made Jesus weep. And it’s not just men who do this. Many “Christian women” look upon non-Christian women with disgust, disdain, and a truckload of judgment. And to top it off, the four gospels have it that the risen Christ commissioned women to teach men! Well, let’s just skip over that part. It’s not important. God picked a man to be his representative and that's final. Who would have believed a woman, then or now?

Like Jesus, we will all descend into the abyss before our ascension into another dimension of being, a dimension far more transcendent than any we can know in human form. Until that time, we remain on earth and watch as our loved ones disappear before our very eyes, sharing the same disbelief as the women at the tomb. And when our own bodies are whittled away by the ravages of disease, sucked dry by the vampires of bodily pain, we will no doubt find women at our sides. For women have an amazing capacity to witness, to enter into the darkness of others, and to offer a cup of love to the thirsty. It is no accident that Jesus picked them to carry the message of love.

You will not find me in church today. My resurrected Jesus will be found at the bedside of a dying friend, in the joy of a child discovering a hidden Easter egg, in the warm lick of a dog’s tongue across my cheek, and in the singing celebration of the birds.

My Easter is right here, all around me.

Helping Hands

For the few remaining readers who haven’t thrown themselves in front of an eighteen-wheeler after reading my last two blogs, read this: I vow to be more positive, at least for today.

Sure, I get angry when I see injustice and abuse, enraged at people and systems that try to squash the life out of others due to their own need to survive. You all get that about me.

Just yesterday I heard, “Why can’t she say anything nice?” Though not directed at me, I took it to heart. So here I am, the first early bird of what’s not yet morning, breathing in the crisp, winter air, grateful to be alive.

What’s good about we humans is our willingness to care about others. As a former nurse specializing in end-of-life care, I have witnessed countless people broken by illness -- financially, emotionally and physically. When I have been injured or sick and unable to care for myself, it has been my friends who have brought me back to life and contributed to my healing.

The response to the catastrophic earthquake that hit Haiti on January 12 has been overwhelmingly positive; the outpouring of financial aid, given the economy, astoundingly generous. According to Stacy Palmer, editor of The Chronicle of Philanthropy, as of January 21, 2010—less than 10 days after the quake --- over 305 million dollars had been donated, and that’s only to American charities. Over 25 million of these dollars was donated to the Red Cross via text messaging alone! The immediacy of response in disasters is critical; it doesn’t help much to offer a hand weeks or months later. The world pulled together to help perfect strangers as if they were kin.

I like the term communitariansim. Communitarians argue that there is a need to balance individual rights and interests with the interests of the community as a whole. We are shaped by the values and the cultures of our communities, which is why I haven’t broken into your house and eaten your chocolate or taken the air out of your tires at the dog park because you refused to share it (see Evil). My parents, teachers and peers taught me that stealing was wrong (although they never mentioned anything about tires). A healthy society must balance liberal rights with community responsibility, in other words, too much individualism can be a bad thing.

In Green Valley, Arizona, we tend to help one another out. Green Valley has been called a) God’s waiting room; b) a great place to live; c) an active adult retirement community; d) a really bizarre place. Given the fact that there is no real infrastructure to age-in-place, if your health declines you will either move back to Minnesota to live with your son or if you have any, deplete your assets and move into a pricey assisted living facility.

Aging people have more health issues and therefore more need for community. My friend Lee, who died a month shy of her 100th birthday, abhorred the idea of community. Community implied people, in numbers, and the very thought of it made her recoil in disgust. Ultimately, she was unable to survive without the help of it, a chain unbroken that helped her step through death's door.

Most of my closet friends are women living alone. Correction -- women living alone with dogs. We take turns getting sick and having problems. One such friend now needs help. Together we join hands in support, forming a community of Light to reach out in known and unknown ways. An email to a world renown expert asking for help, a few slices of quiche, a call, an encouraging word, or just being present. We need one another; if it is not our turn today, it will be one day.

There was never an expectation of a response to the email asking for direction and advice, just a stab-in-the-dark hope. After all, these doctors are too busy to reply to a outsider asking for help. Surprisingly, in less than 12 hours, a response arrived: My mother died yesterday, heading to Prague, if you still need help, call me next week, see phone below. JP

In the grip of grief, a stranger reached out to help someone in need. We are some amazing beings, we humans. Together we join hands in support, forming a community of Light to reach out in known and unknown ways.

I am encouraged.

Left with Memory, Not Life

She sleeps and has no memories to speak of. But I am cloaked in memory. These are the garments from childhood and beyond, strewn about my home as reminders of who I am and where I have come from. The Girl Scout uniform in all its glory, the floral furniture, the Queen Elizabeth lamp I coveted as a child, and even the 5,000 ton mechanical bed that bore sole witness to my mother’s final breath. The massive fire of 1962 erased all evidence of life before.

Each and every piece of physical evidence we carefully collect and display evokes a mind-trace to what went before; they are our bread crumbs stored up for a rainy day, our love letters sealed and preserved just in case we forget that we were once deeply loved.

Some of us feel mandated to preserve our own memories and the memory of others at the cost of living life. Some say remarrying after the death of a spouse is the ultimate betrayal. Getting rid of Granny’s homemade quilt running a close second. Take my house, for example. In it, lives the memory of two mothers, former deceased occupants I never met, discarded pottery from 2nd graders I never knew, oil paintings of strangers once in love. Forages through thrift shop rubble, flea markets and street fairs reveal treasures calling out for homes and the reverence due them. And so it is that we find ourselves surrounded by objects d’art that bind us to memory lest we forget we are a part of the collective.

Alcoholics clutch their drink, drug addicts their heroin, shoppers their acquisitions, spiritual seekers their illusions, each grasping for something that they believe will make all-things-right within. It is never enough. In our effort to bring newness into life and breath to the stagnation of our past, we reach out into the yet-to-be in search of unborn memories that give us temporary reprieve.

I once had a lover who gave me Puakenikeni, an intensely fragrant, but fragile Hawaiian flower. I saved every blossom. Dried and wilted, brown and aged, I kept them for years, a sacrilege to toss them away.

The flowers are finally gone, but I’m having a heck of a time getting rid of those love letters. Maybe in the Spring.

Evil

“Evil is the exercise of power to intentionally harm (psychologically), hurt (physically), or destroy (mortally or spiritually) others.”

Phillip Zimbardo, The Lucifer Effect

I believe that people are not inherently evil. Evil, as Zimbardo defines it, is the deliberate misuse of power to the detriment of others. Like a cancer, it grows until it ultimately affects one’s ability to function healthily, thrive spiritually, and be a positive influence in the world. Evil, like sin, is “missing the mark,” or as other traditions might put it, focusing on and identifying with the wrong things. Someone under “The Lucifer Effect” might start out with good intentions, but ultimately succumb to the dictates of his ego.

There are few weightier crimes than feigning a life of spirituality yet persisting in acts that are meant to harm or destroy others. Many of these self-proclaimed spiritual people rise to power and have caused entire civilizations to fall, for the seed of selfishness is one persistent son-of-a-bitch and hard to eradicate.

As the story goes, Lucifer was beloved of God and handsome to boot, but power hungry, greedy and selfish, not unlike we humans. “God is good and dwells within us,” says the charlatan priest after committing an unspeakable act. The Devil apparently does too. When we do good things, we may say that God deserves the credit, but when we commit acts of harm, it is the devil within us that has caused us to fall. While there is still an ego-self ready and waiting for personal gain and glory, or even the rejection thereof, there will be problems. There will be suffering. There will be division.

Every harsh word spoken is a boomerang back to our own hearts. When our hearts are made of steel, we cannot feel their impact. As our hearts soften, the barbs of our speech fly back and cut into us. We bleed. In short, we harm ourselves the most when we intend to cause harm to others.

When newly in love, we overlook the signs that herald abuse, immaturity, and self-centeredness. We want to see the best in others and so we believe what they say and what they promise, often discounting what they do. Within them we see a golden vessel of love, albeit obscured in excrement caused by the pain of living, by repeated disappointments, by fear, greed, and selfishness. If we were simply to observe, we would see clearly. But years go by and nothing changes, except perhaps a few pieces of excrement get washed away by time, by chance.

Forgiveness is a difficult concept. How do we forgive someone who intentionally causes us harm? It does not mean forgetting, nor does it mean providing infinite chances to those who say they intend no harm but continue to act to the contrary. Forgiveness means understanding the pain that drives us to do harmful things. To see it clearly for what it is. It means releasing that pain in ourselves, the pain that might cause us to harm others. If we truly honor ourselves, we can not allow others to to harm us. Certainly, some are held captive without possibility of physical escape, yet even they can find sanctuary within where no harm can enter.

In clearly seeing suffering we see the root of what we call evil. And these roots are deeper than we can possibly imagine. Buddhism teaches that it is not the mind alone that must be trained; the heart must also be opened. An open heart without wisdom is doomed. A sharpened intellect without true compassion, worthless.

Be wary of those who call themselves spiritual but have their own interest at heart. While there may be a glimmer of truth in what they say, watch and wait and see what they do. Wish for them the fire, that they too may be robbed of everything but empty equanimity and infinite kindness. For if man cannot see and feel the ripple of his actions and intent upon the world, he is blind.

To see, to feel, and to ultimately understand the nature of suffering, guides us in ways no teacher or teaching can. It is simple and always with us. There is no price to be paid for what is already ours. Yet we often give people in power our trust, our hearts, and sometimes our lives. Entrusted to preserve the myth they market as Truth, they feed upon those thirsty for solution, saying they have special training or powers. Yet, they too are human, many suffering far more than those who kneel before them to receive a blessing.

Why, o spiritual seeker, do you continue to drink from a golden vessel covered in excrement? You alone must realize your own truth. Remove neediness and grasping. Do not look outside yourself. You are sufficient as yourself. Deep within you is the pulse of your divine wisdom, ever beating. Realize it and be free.

Go on, Celebrate Life.

When you are young, the winds of Fate can carry you to places you would never dream of traveling.  The young have an innocence, a joie de vie, that often has been put to rest in later years.   Undaunted, the young step bravely into the Unknown.

C and I were inseparable until a young man stopped at the bottom of the hill, a door opened, and we squeezed our bodies into a fire engine red MGA.  It was the literal opening of a door, a pathway to a new life. 

This was the 60s, when life was meant to be explored and enjoyed. C and I honestly weren't that keen on men, the odd species. In no time at all,  he fell madly in love with her, while she was madly in love with me.  Eventually, an amicable dissolution was reached and nearly a decade had past. Time had moved us all along.  He had decided … in his own words… to become a monk. Had I known monk meant cult member I might have chosen differently, but monk sounded noble, selfless. The concept itself hit my soft spot; I could only think of one appropriate farewell gift. Sex. 

Upon discovery of the small, yet powerful, enigma growing inside me, it became time to let Destiny once again have her say.  He cowered and ran for protection. I stood my ground, or rather "she" stood hers.  This little life inside me insisted on being born, insisted on truth.  In that moment of certitude, I swear the heavens rejoiced.  The mortals were about to get a run for their money.  She would take human form and choose to live among us. 

Today, we celebrate that life and light. 

Happy Birthday, Anisse.

God

We ask a lot from God. As One who is Omnipotent, Omnipresent and Omniscient, our paltry requests – even those that include gut-wrenching and pathetic bargaining to spare a life or become cured of an incurable disease – are nothing for someone like God to grant. God can do anything God wants.

It is the same argument of old. If God is on our side, then the “favors” we ask are granted; God is pleased with us and acts accordingly. However, if we ask God to grant our request and God is not pleased with us, our requests are denied. We are shamed, shunned, and reminded that we are less than perfect. We are unimportant and dismissible. We are outside of the Light. Too much to bear, we turn it around to then believe that God is showing us a special kind of favoritism: God knows we need to suffer to grow in spirit. Father Knows Best. For this, we are supposed to be thankful. If we are thankful enough, we will end the circle of absurdity and maybe even rebirth. If we show signs of anger, resentment and heaven forbid, hostility toward God, we just may slip through the cracks to the bottomless abyss below.

When I was a young woman, I did something that would be considered a very significant sin in the eyes of the church (oops, I mean the Church). So grievous was my sin that, according to church doctrine, I would be forever be outside the love of God. God was not happy and crossed out my name from the Book of Life with a permanent marker. There were others. Here we were, a mismosh of evictees, victims of circumstance thrown into the ring with convicted felons, all to be fed to the lions of pomposity.

In that moment, on that day of sentencing, I was set free. Not by God, but by the absence of God. For if God would condemn me forever without reprieve, then I was free to live my life in any way I chose, good or bad, without fear of spiritual consequence.

What happens when we take God out of the equation? God has gone to the Bahamas without his cell phone. Drat. What happens when our intermediaries are gone as well? God-in-Christ-and-All-the-Saints-and-Buddhas have taken holiday en masse. The petitioner and the petitionees are incommunicado. Please leave a message after the tone.

Like my second daughter, I really want to believe in God. I want to believe in the God that others are convinced exists. I have looked for God as earnestly as anyone. I have boldly walked into the heart of all faith traditions and practices, attempting to leave no stone unturned. I did not find God. What I found was the freedom of not-finding, the wisdom that God can not be found. The best I can do is feel for the essence of life and witness the incomprehensible majesty and beauty of ordinary living. I can feel for what lives in you that lives in me, our common spirit that feels good and right and true.

My trinity is that of Wisdom, Compassion, and Beneficence. The three are inseparable and are in and of everything that exists. Now that I am free, I can take my them with me everywhere I go.

Fraudulent Authenticity

The purpose of this timely article is to educate and to stress the critical and urgent need to protect against a terrible virus known as FA. There is no known immunization or antidote once the infection has taken root. Once infected, the virus spreads rapidly to affect brain function, culminating in irreversible brain damage, save a few isolated cases.

This has been a major coup for those whose primary goal has been dumbing down the masses. Nearly everyone now carries the virus. Like other virulent pathogens that have reached epidemic proportion, efforts to arrest the spread of infection have been largely unsuccessful. Prevention efforts, such as this one, have been too small in number to effect any significant change, but I’m hoping with this blog post, things might change. Most people who carry the virus don’t even know they have it, as the auditory-brain connection is severed. Epidemiologically, it is the worst virus known to humankind to date.

Replicating at speeds beyond comprehension, FA is like a thief in the night, entering silently and unannounced, replacing healthy cells with a “cell-double.” Looking and acting like its predecessor cells, this cell double is virtually undetectable by modern medicine or microscopy. It takes up residence unnoticed, usurping and ultimately annihilating its former inhabitant: you.

It began over a decade ago as a fairly circumscribed virus, infecting only a small percentage of the population. The virus appears benign, subjecting its unsuspecting host to its toxin. Those who are newly infected exhibit the same symptoms with disturbing accuracy in a matter of months, thus spreading the disease to more immune-naïve individuals.

To perpetuate and grow the virus, however, took concerted and unified efforts on the part of businesses, corporations, governments, schools and other major players of society. Perhaps the most insidious and lethal disseminators of the virus have been, and continue to be, supermarkets and houses of worship. Ironically, the very places people feel safe are those where 100% infection is almost guaranteed. Their collective efforts have paid off: FA is has reached global proportions and to date there is no known treatment or cure.

“Have a nice day!” she said as I finished my transaction at the supermarket. No sooner did I pick up my bag when I heard, “Would you like some help out with your bags?” Earlier, someone said, “Are you finding everything you need?” At first, it sounded almost sincere. But now, I have heard those very same phrases over a hundred times, without alteration. It could be the cable or the phone company: “I’m sorry to hear you are having problems. Please know we are making every effort to resolve your issue.” You will be hard pressed to find any business or venue that is infection-free.

There are few places left that are safe. But I am well and sane enough to tell you this: there is still time to save yourself from this devastating disease that literally eats your brain alive! This is no joke!!!

Please, I caution you, take every safeguard to protect yourself. Signs and symptoms of those infected with the virus include unconsciously repeating rote phrases and responses the most common of which is “Have a nice day,” usually accompanied by a feigned smile. If you have been exposed, cover your ears immediately and leave the premises. There is no guarantee that airborne droplets have not entered your auditory canal and are enroute to the brain. Isolating yourself it is your best defense. Remaining aware that you are a separate and distinct entity can boost your immune system to ward off the disease.

If someone demands that you repeat certain phrases as part of your job, quit then and there and seek refuge. These people have reached the final stages of the illness. REMEMBER: there are no known treatments or interventions that have proven useful at this point.

Recognizing the symptoms of this devastating disease will save not only your life but also your rational mind. Ultimately, the future of our species is at stake. It’s up to you. Guard against FA. Spread the real word.

Falling in Love Again

Single or coupled, we can feel alone at times. Ours is species of connectedness, not isolation. When we connect to one another, particularly to those we love, we feel vital and expanded. When we are in a state of disconnection, we long to find our way home. Last night, over a chicken breast, I was warned not to recycle old pieces of writing. But are they old to one who never read them, or to one who had, but forgot the content? Here is one such resurrected piece.

Not a single log burned in the fireplace that winter. It felt like sacrilege to sit there alone, rather than curled up in the arms of a beloved. She tried the usual schemes of romancing herself, but even they grew old. It was in those moments that she came to terms with the pain of a solitary existence. No matter what she offered herself as appeasement, all proved to be a thin replacement for the love and intimacy she longed to express and receive. Simply put, she wanted to fall in love again.

It’s not that she minded being alone, but sometimes, she reflected back on the times in her life when the heartbeat and breath of another were more precious than her own. And as a woman who collected rare perfumes from all over the globe, she knew this: there is nothing more intoxicating than the scent of the one you love.

The idea of love is at best a rough sketch, a pencil drawing on a ragged piece of paper. With each fold and tear, the image mutates. She had all but thrown away the image, yet an impress was still left upon her. It would have to catch her by surprise, of course, when override had gone off on holiday. It was tough work to come this far in love, to keep her heart open. She wanted to go the distance. Would it matter in the very least who she loved? Or was love sufficient in its own right? Could she, a butterfly at the dusk of its life, open her wings one last time and soar? She had hoped so, she had believed so, but now, she was not so sure. Override sticks close to home.

It was hard to shed a skin that no longer fit her. She was emerging but resisted becoming something unfamiliar. It is always this way, until a love affair is consummated with the Unfamiliar itself.

There is no other way to be known than to open wide from the depth of one’s being. It will eat away at us, until we muster up enough courage, beyond our pain and limitation, to trust, to open, to explore, and to love with the full extent of our souls. I know this. We all know this.

And yet, we wait…

9/09/09

While getting fitted for my new eyeglasses at Costco, I mentioned to Tim, the optical guy, that today was 9/09/09. “Yes, I know!” he replied. He had thought the very same thing upon rising. I suggested it had mystical meaning, and he thought so as well. I felt today was going to be an auspicious day and I shared that with him. “I hope so,” was all he said.

It wasn’t an hour later when I realized all the money I had with me was gone, as well as the gift and merchandise credit cards from varying stores I had stored in my desk for years and decided to spend today. I deliberately placed the cash and cards in a separate cloth purse, which was placed inside the satchel I carried cross-breasted. In addition to the small cloth purse was a can of Macadamia nuts I intended to return. I had carried them into the store with me, stuffed into the satchel, as the return line was way too long when I arrived. I figured I’d do it on the way out.

When I discovered the small Guatemalan cloth purse, carrying some 300 dollars in cash and an indeterminate amount of money in merchandise credit, was missing, I backtracked. I went to the last place I had been: Costco. No luck. Had it fallen out of my satchel somewhere? Had it been on my lap in the car when I opened the door, falling to the ground unnoticed? Had it been pick-pocketed out of the top of the satchel while I was distracted shopping? Had it been swept up into a 4th dimension vortex? Given my vigilance and organization, misplacing it was out of the question. It had either fallen out of the satchel, been stolen, or dropped to the ground when I got out of the car. Which one was it? If it were stolen, would I wish the thief good or ill will? If it had dropped to the ground outside Costco, would the person who found it be a thief? After all, it was just money and money-equivalences. My credit cards, driver’s license, ATM cards or any sort of identification saying the contents were MINE were absent. Is it really stealing if you don’t know there’s a person attached to it? Is it like finding a hundred dollar bill in the gutter? Or is finding a purse with money on a counter, on the floor of a store, or next to someone’s car actually stealing because the inference is that the person is nearby and will come back to look for it?

Stealing is one thing. Finding a treasure another. How do we distinguish? On the one hand, stealing is morally and ethically wrong. On the other, finding a treasure is good luck. So which was it? I’ll never know. What I do know is that the recipient’s intention will determine the outcome, good or bad.

Maybe 9/9/09 is an auspicious day after all.

Wrong Number

This morning I received a call from a man whose voice I did not recognize. “Is this my lady friend?” he asked. “I don’t know…possibly,” I replied cautiously. I was hoping to tune in to the voice and identify the person behind it, but what was running through my mind was that a “suitor” was disguising his voice to pull one over on me. Others had tried, unsuccessfully. But maybe that just gives them incentive to try harder. “I’m thinking about shaving my head,” he said, “like a cue-ball.” I was still rummaging through my head to think who would have the audacity to call so early in the morning, not even nine o’clock for God’s sake. I drew a blank.

“So, whaddaya think?” he said. “I’m not sure you have the right person, who are you trying to reach?,” fishing for an answer to quench my puzzlement. Silence. And then, “May I ask who’s calling?” He glossed over my questions. “So whaddaya think? Would you like it? Will you boycott me when my shining head blinds you?” This was too much, it had to be a joke, but maybe it wasn’t. Then, he called me Jean. I was in over my head at this point and decided to play along, as he obviously didn’t care who he was talking to. Then, it dawned on me. He was both hard of hearing and had dementia. Perfect. If I was looking for some early morning entertainment, I got it. Better than Good Morning America any day.

“So, will you still like me if I shave my head like a cue-ball?” repeating the same question over and over again." It doesn’t matter if I will like it, it matters if you will like it. What do you want to do?," I said, throwing the ball back in his court. “I guess so. I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna do it today. “I’ll see you at 11, then,” he said in parting, “but 11 is a long, long time away from now, isn’t it?”

Eleven, I thought to myself. I’d better get the house ready in case he shows up at 11. I’ll be Jean and invite him in for tea.

Remembering Lee

When your time comes, it just comes. In one instant, you will draw in your last breath, in another, you will “expire.” Everyone does this. Everyone who sees and knows and feels himself to exist, does this.

I have been keeping the death vigil for my dear friend Lee, armed with the knowledge of others who have gone this way. Still, there is no knowing ahead of time how it will unfold. We cannot orchestrate this event called death. The guru says, “You are very close.” Thus, the aspirant lives in anticipation of ultimate freedom and continues on. This is how I kept the death vigil for Lee.

The eyes tell us much about the inner state. When words and actions cease, the eyes whisper and tell us what is needed next. We are afraid but cannot speak. We are not even sure of what we are afraid of. We resist this passage, this inevitability called death. Who will tell us that it is okay? We, who have not yet approached the portal? Yes. We do just that. Death is as natural as birth. It is a laboring. It is a difficult effort besieged by uncertainty. Death is a mystery.

I am looking at her breath and counting. I am watching closely for what I know to be the signs of imminent death. I see them but I do not know the hour or the moment it will come. Death is not a thief in the night. Death is not the enemy. It is a sweet Wing of Light, slipping through mortal flesh and carrying the soul toward eternity.

I tell her, “The universe is infinite and inexplicably beautiful.” “You will fly free now.” I say all the things of love and worth and forgiveness and release. And realize I am all of those things come alive to be given away as gifts for the journey she must take.

I wait for the moment the Wing will come. I surround her with sacred chanting and the sounds of ocean waves breaking upon the shore. I sing to her and am taken in to the chamber of my own heart ~the One heart~ by the sweetness of it all. Now, there is only love. I hold her, and stroke her hair like her mother never did. I tell her I love her. I thank her for her life. I let her go and bow in gratitude, slipping away myself to let the Wing of Light come in and carry her toward eternity.

And She does.

Not THAT End You Idiot!

If anything, years of spiritual practice make you recognize injustice when you see it. They also promote equanimity. Equanimity, when put into daily life, tempers and hopefully overrides the instinct to go out and throttle people. This is a good thing.

Those who have been following my personal life know that I go off on rants every now and again. Writing is one of the ways I stay sane. As my fingers need to be near the keyboard, the rest of my body can’t be elsewhere. The end result is that the world and its inhabitants are safe, for the time being.

When I worked for the University, I had a great medical insurance plan. I rarely used it. If I had been smart, I would have had every non-essential organ removed, lined them up on a buffet table, and crawled on top of it to let them follow up with a lobotomy for dessert. There would have been family photos of me looking gloriously happy in my pre-corpse stupor. I know, it’s not the same image as that sexy naked woman laid out with sushi artistically placed on her perfect breasts and other inviting parts, but it’s an image nonetheless. Somewhere, probably in childhood, I got the notion that I should keep my bodily parts intact, save the one kidney that went by the wayside in 1974.

When I left my job to move near my mother who was dying of ovarian cancer, I left an entire life, including my job and its accompanying benefits. Little did I know that getting health insurance on my own would be prohibitively expensive for anything approximating what I had. I also quickly learned that the name of the health insurance game is exclusion. Question # 591: Have you ever had a nosebleed? If you see that question, lie. This could be used against you. Your prothombin levels could be low, or you might have a platelet problem. It could be serious and more importantly expensive. You will be turned down and shunned. I know this for a fact. Just lie.

There are certain things that I believe in. Health screening is one of them. Blue Cross Blue Shield of Arizona (BCBS) claims to be a non-profit organization. I made it through underwriting after single-handedly lowering my total cholesterol 150 points. The plan looked adequate. Preventive services were covered without touching the deductible. It's what they don't tell you that matters.

Hooray! I get to have a screening colonoscopy! The bad news is that I find out it will cost me somewhere between 3,000-4,500 dollars. BCBS will pay 80% of the physician charges, which happen to be $860.00 for the privilege of sticking a tube up my rear orifice. That's it. I checked. Still can’t get a figure on the anesthesiology charges, as apparently no one can determine what they might be. Just to walk in the hospital and get naked is 2,500 dollars. If one or two polyps get squashed under a microscope ...... who knows? The health insurance worker bees are pretty much silent on the issue and have varying degrees of information over and above their brainwashing. At the high end of the spectrum, they are very good at telepathic communication. At least I can appreciate that. Even if they could, they are not allowed to think on their own. So here I am. The physician won’t administer the procedure without anesthesia, nor will he perform it along side a well-lit taco stand. No, they want to stick it to me on their terms. I will be rendered unconscious or consciously incognito. A cloak of invisibility will be cast upon me. Who then will tell them they’ve got it ass-backwards?

The good news is that the medical model, for the most part, is anti-health and some of us are out of the loop! Just look at the industry. (Hint: We call it an industry). How many people go in fine and come out compromised? Hospital acquired infections (HAI’s) are on the rise. Infection Control Today (9/2/09) states that "Healthcare-acquired infection rates are about 5 percent of all admissions at the moment and with bed days valued at $1,005 each, the total economic burden is close to $1 billion per annum." And this is just in Australia. The federal Centers for Disease Control estimated that in any given year 1.7 million patients will get a hospital-acquired infection during their hospital stay. Out of those 1.7 million, 99,000 people, or about 270 per day, will die. These were the findings in 2002. More recently, the CDC estimated the annual medical costs of healthcare-associated infections in U.S. hospitals to be between $28 and $45 billion. Maybe that’s why my premiums are so high. Or maybe it’s because all those people who never paid into the system are now drawing from my investment (not to mention yours) to the tune of gazillions of dollars. Clearly, the factors are complex, maybe too complex for any of us to understand. It’s also just not right. Why is it the honest people who play by societal rules get penalized? This is the Era of Entitlement. Wake up America!

My fatality fantasy is being run over by a kosher meat truck, but that is unlikely in Arizona. I may need to modify it. In the unlikely case I'm not killed instantly, I hope to cost my insurance company so much money, they disappear from the face of the earth.

Blog Bog

I want to write about John the Shoe Shine Boy but it will have to wait. It's a story I hope is worth telling; there were volumes screaming out from his steel-blue eyes. And then, right around the corner, was Colonel Sanders. Trapped in a time warp, these two and others took us in. But that will be told another day, perhaps in the 'morrow. For now, I’m in a bog. A blog bog.

Caught up in a rapturous lucky streak of my own making, I was going full bore with the Zir Effect until ‘THEY” came. They, those people from a past still part of me. The children, grandchildren, lovers, friends. The sundry others that can’t or won’t let go. Admittedly, it’s a two-way street; the door swings both ways. I’ve always had an open door policy when it comes to my past and an open door policy when it comes to my future. That allows me, for the most part, to stay present in the now. But I do slip up. Like you, I get dragged into my past like an unwilling, blindfolded prisoner, shored up against the wall of her own self-execution. Spinning 180, the future appears nothing more than an embryonic abstraction, though I often paint it bleak and foreboding or idealistically simplistic and quaint depending on my mood. I let others speak for me when I tire of explaining the inexplicable; a dishwasher packed to the gill tells me all I need to know about my existence. And yet I yearn for those things that will crack my porcelained view of the world and open me further.

I am angry with those who take advantage of others yet I allow myself to be taken advantage of. If I can see the thread of perpetual bondage can I snip it and put an end to the madness? Or does that very thread hold me together?

My eyes are fine, the doctor reported. Early cataracts. I knew my vision was partially obscured so why did I pay to have this knowledge substantiated? Other than that, nothing has changed. Why do they not see that my left eye is appreciably different from my right? It’s blurry, for God’s sake! Are their assessment tools so archaic that they can’t detect the obvious? Because of this anomaly, everyone sneaks up on me from the left, like apparitions encroaching on my sanity. By the time I see them, they’ve already made themselves at home. I don't mind, they're my family after all.

Thoughts on Kindness

There are times when the insensitivities of others crush us to the core. Hurt as children and as adults, sometimes horrifically beyond imagination, we have become intolerant. We often forget that those who hurt us are themselves hurting. Even if we understand this, understanding is not enough to erase the memory of pain. How then do we emerge from our small prisons of pain to come back to kindness once again? Two ways: We wake up or we continue to suffer.

What happened to kindness, to the inherent generosity of spirit? It was once the first offering until we learned to suppress it, moderate it, save it up and carefully give it out to those we felt deserved it. Not to those who were unkind. Never.

If we want a kinder world, we have to be kinder to others first, without motive. Even small acts of kindness can have profound effects. I like to think that when I save a drowning bee from the swimming pool that I have saved the world. It takes fewer units of energy to be kind than to be hateful, jealous, or cruel.

The best thing about kindness is it changes us, from the inside out. We learn to forgive, even if we can’t forget, because we are being kind to ourselves. By simply being kind the whole would changes. It’s true.