I am not an evil-doer.  I strive to be a doer of love.  I believe in a Divine Creator and an orderly Universe.  I believe in life after death, a spirit world inhabited by saints and angels, and in reincarnation.  I believe my purpose in this lifetime has been to learn and grow in my knowledge of how the universe works, to understand the divine spark in each of us, and to recognize that we are all connected.  I do not ever ask anyone to believe what I believe, only to recognize my right to believe it.  It is my truth, just as you and you and you each have a truth of your own.  I love that about everyone, each having your own truth and, importantly, speaking it.

I make some of the most important people in my life very uncomfortable.  They would undoubtedly like it so much better if I would just forget all this spirituality stuff and be content as a nice normal mom and grandma.  I do love being that, but I am more.

I am blessed with the gifts of intuition and energy healing.  My only desire is to use these gifts to help others.  And I do help others.  Sometimes it just means that a person comes to me with a raging headache and leaves without it.  Sometimes it means that I can energetically open an area of emotional pain and release it in healing sobbing.  Sometimes I can discern something that should be checked out medically.  Sometimes I can just be the person who listens.  Or who laughs with you.  I do not believe that I am doing harm.

Unbelievably, I am struggling with the possiblility of giving up what I do, and believe, in order to preserve peace in the family.  One person is particularly upset by who I am and how I think and feel.  The breach is wide and possibly permanent, unless I apologize for being who I am, and change my ways.

I can shut it all down or put it in a dark closet of secrecy.  Or I can stand strong in the light, speak my truth, do my work with love, and live with the consequences no matter how painful they are.

At this moment I do not feel able to do either of those things.  God help me.  Please.

I am definitely in favor of true love, though.  I like thinking about my own history of it.  It’s a  history over a long period of time with a very short number of players, lucky me.   A while back I wrote this little poem about my first true crush, proving that some poignant memories simply live forever.

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8TH GRADE WOMAN   (1953)

What makes that day different is

An imperceptible shift in vision,

An ordinary classroom transformed

By a pulse of translucent light

That perhaps only I can see.

There he is, seated where he always sits,

Upright, attentive, unaware of me as I

Gaze with new eyes at his male grace.

Lee, his name sings to me–Lee, Lee.

Yesterday, a boy unworthy of notice,

Today, the center of the universe.

The absolute cleanliness of him

Clutches at my heart, I am nearly

Brought to unexplainable tears.

His neck rises delicately above the open

Collar of his white shirt, and long sleeves

Are rolled precisely to his elbows.

I barely breathe in the presence of such beauty.

How fortunate that I am well-dressed today

In red poodle skirt with crinolines and

Stylish saddle shoes.

I have crossed the imaginary line that

Edges childhood, and I cannot

Un-know what I know:

I am female.

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Time and maturity eventually move us on beyond the bittersweet time of crushes and their inevitable heartaches.  My one true love knocked on my door forty-two years ago.  I think it was around about the fortieth year that I gifted him with this little summary of those years, from the beginning to the present.

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I LOVED YOU THEN, I LOVE YOU NOW

Lithe limbs tangle

In wrinkled bedclothes,

Hot urgency and

Need are unrelenting.

Breathing shared air,

Hands seek the pungent

Secrets of one’s youthful lover,

And flawless bodies expect to be

Impervious to time.

 then. . .

Decades gone, and lovers still.

More sweet tranquility

Than urgency, and yet . .

A ripeness of imperfections

Replaces vigorous youth,

And how welcome!

Bodies embrace with warmth,

Explore with infinite delicacy,

Mindless of time.

*******************************************************

So I wish all the lovers of the world a happy celebration on many days, even February 14th if you must.

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When you love somebody your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you.                                          Karen, age 7

Now it’s a quiet neighborhood.  Without the children to serve as bridges, we’ve disconnected from our neighbors, don’t even know their names now.  In some of the houses, renters come and go, sometimes with not a word spoken between us.  Not one of us makes an effort to be neighborly.

Yet we do have one strong common thread among us.  His name is Dave and he is our mailman.  He is friendly and talkative and happy to share neighbor-news as he gathers it on his route.  Yet he is highly professional in manner and dress and appears to take pride in his work.  He rings the bell if he has a package too big to fit in the box, and if the familiar envelope contains prescription medication he won’t leave it out in the heat of summer for fear it will suffer harm.  A good while back when the house next door suffered a burst pipe and Dave spied water leaking out the front door, he called the city to get the water turned off  and canvassed the neighborhood until he found someone who knew a contact for the out-of-town residents.  They were very grateful that he cared, and that he acted.

On Thursday or Friday of last week, Dave rang our doorbell.  He had finished the route and driven his mail truck back around to our house.  This was our conversation:

Dave:  Do you know there’s a dead cat in your yard?

Me:  Huh?  A cat?  No.   Is it that orange one that’s been stalking my bird feeder with no success?

Dave:  No, this one’s black and white. See it just out there, a dark spot on the grass?  There’s not much left of it but the head.

Me:  Oh, yeah, I see it, I can see an ear sticking up.

Dave:  Don’t go out there and look at it.  It’s torn up, you don’t want to see it.

Me:  Okay.  What do you think happened to it?  I haven’t seen or heard anything, no dogs or anything.

Dave:  Oh, I expect it was a coyote.  Probably happened right there, they don’t usually move them after they kill them.

Me:  Really?  A coyote in our yard?  Are there coyotes around here?

Dave:  Oh yeah, been some over on another street.  I’m pretty sure I know whose cat it is.  Mr. B. around the block from here told me his cat’s been missing for a couple of days, asked me to watch out for it.  I’m going around now to tell him I found it.  Now, don’t you go out there.  We’ll take care of it.

Me:  Uh, thanks.  I really appreciate your help.  Really, a coyote?  In our yard? 

Within ten minutes the bell rang again.  It was Mr. B, a rather frail looking older guy.  He wanted to tell me that his dead cat was in my yard.  He also wanted to tell me that the cat was the offspring of a stray mother who had chosen his garage as the place to birth her kittens a few years ago.  And that his wife had mistakenly named this kitten Lily, but later learned she had the gender wrong.  She just continued to call him Lily, though.  He had a little camera in his hand and he said he was going to take a picture of what was left of Lily, to show his wife at home so that she would know it was really him.  He said that he would call animal control to come and take what remained of Lily away.  And he told me not to go out there and look.  It was pretty bad, he said.  I just said that I was very sorry about Lily, and he went off to show the picture to his wife.

A few minutes later Mr. B. was back in my front yard, as I could see from my office window.  He stood quietly beside his cat until the city truck came.  The young driver stood with him and talked for quite a while, no doubt hearing all about Lily, before he scooped up the remains and took them away.

So thanks to Dave, I was spared the unpleasantness of coming unexpectedly upon a dead cat in my yard.  And an old gentleman who loved the cat was treated with utmost kindness by the guardian of our block.

Our neighborhood is really a very nice place to live.

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A cat is there when you call her–if she has nothing better to do.                   Bill Adler

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I think there were three circumstances that could have sent me on my journey as a fat person, along with the fact that my mother could never hide her disappointment in my appearance.

When I was about three, my father left me and my mother and grandmother to hold down the fort in a small Oregon town while he went off to fight in WWII.  Like so many others, he didn’t come back; he is buried in Italy.  So I was a War Orphan.  When I was seven my mother married the man I ever-after called Dad, but to whom I was only tenuously connected.  Now I was a Step-Child.  And . .

Someone else’s daddy

Played an ugly game with me,

Pretending it was giggle-tickle fun.

Big hands would grab and poke and squeeze

In places that were mine.

Telling was no option,

As it would only

Disappoint my grown-ups.

Hyper-vigilance is not

A small girl’s normal state,

But I achieved it, and so

Preserved the make-believe

Innocence of the world.

Now I was a Silent Victim.  Well, no wonder I was fat.  What’s puzzling is that no amount of insight, acceptance, forgiveness, or understanding has ever made the problem go away.

I think that being fat in America must be a lot like being black in America.  I’ve had conversations about this with a friend of mine, an educated, successful, professional African-American woman friend.  She says that she feels racial bias constantly in her life, it’s just a fact to live with.  I feel exactly the same, except mine is fat bias.  We both have always felt that we must work harder, be nicer, dress better, and give more in all life situations in order to achieve acceptance.  It is the need for acceptance that drives us into being over-achievers.

Growing up, every message sent by society was that I was not normal and not worthy of having the good things in life.  Books, movies, magazines back then all said the good stuff was reserved for pretty, slender girls, not necessarily smart girls, and certainly not fat girls.  Sadly, I don’t think the message has changed much, and my granddaughters are getting the same old poop.

Believe me, I’ve tried to be thin, tried everything from very early Weight Watchers programs (back then no products, you had to boil up your own ketchup) to liquid protein shakes to drastic stomach stapling surgery.

Today I am moderately fat and I am not terribly unhappy about it.  In fact I am content to have come to a place where my goal is to be reasonably healthy.  I try to eat well, and I fall off the wagon frequently but try not to obsess about it.  I am exercising moderately three times a week, and sometimes I don’t do it.  It’s okay.  It’s all okay

And those negative messages about fat girls being unworthy of the good stuff?  Simply not true, because I have it all.  And I’m still fat.

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It’s a very odd thing

As odd as can be

That whatever Miss T. eats

Turns into Miss T.                                                    Walter de la Mare

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Three years ago, or maybe more than that now, I felt compelled to work with clay.  Nothing and nobody in my earthly life ever made such a suggestion, it was just heaven-sent, my team at work.  I took classes, I learned new skills and met new people.  I found unexpected glee in putting my hands in the clay on the wheel and turning it into something.  I turned it into pots, little pots, fun pots, silly pots–pots and more pots.  It was such a joyful thing to do.

And then I stopped doing it.  I was done.  Not sad or frustrated or bored, just done.  Spirit said it was time for something new.

If anyone out there has a use for the 75 pounds of unopened stoneware clay that is sitting here in my office, all you have to do is come get it.  Please.  I’ll even throw in a well-used potter’s apron and some basic tools.  Think about it.  Maybe ceramics is YOUR next new joy!

I waited happily for heaven to send the next bulletin concerning my new activity.  I was pretty sure it would be something creative to be done with my hands.  I kept sending this thought into the universe, intensely, to head off trouble:  “Please, please don’t say sewing.  I really hate sewing, and sewing hates me.  Please, don’t say sewing.”

Well, they didn’t say sewing; they said COOKING.  Oh, yikes! 

I don’t have a good history with cooking, it doesn’t come naturally to me.  I managed to put food on the table while the kids were growing up, but I know they don’t have warm-fuzzy memories of it.  I pretty much raised them on baloney and cheese sandwiches and thought that was okay nutritionally.  What I most hope they remember about their mom’s cooking is that we usually ate it together around a table, and that we talked to each other while we ate it.

I have issues with food and eating, always have.  I have finally achieved a semi-peaceful relationship with it since spirit directed me to become a semi-vegetarian.  They said it was necessary for the development of intuitive clarity; I don’t eat meat or fish or cheese, and allow other dairy only as it is incorporated in a recipe and is far down on the ingredients list.  Fortunately, I really like eggs.  As a result of these dietary changes, I am in good health, I feel good, and my weight is as stable as it has ever been.  I am still obese, but not as obese as I used to be.  And I do have clarity.

But I don’t really cook, certainly not for fun, tending to fall back on frozen veggies and the prepared stuff with the lists of chemical ingredients.  And that seems to be the message, learn to cook for fun and good nutrition, go more organic, make REAL FOOD.  So far I am having fun collecting recipes and looking at fascinating cooking gadgets, and thinking about the food I will cook in the future and how good it will be. 

And I’m positive I’ll need at least one good new pot.

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To get the best results, you must talk to your vegetables.                                        Charles, Prince of Wales (Son of Elizabeth II)

Vegetarianism is harmless enough, though it is apt to fill a man with wind and self-righteousness.                  Sir Robert Hutchinson

Please understand the reason why Chinese vegetables taste so good.  It is simple.  The Chinese do not cook them, they just threaten them.                 Jeff Shaw

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We tend to choose the calmer films now, not so much into the blockbusters like Avatar, Twilight, 2012, or anything that’s too deep or depressing or thought-provoking, or blows up or has chases.  This season we’ve enjoyed The Blind Side, Pirate Radio, Fantastic Mr. Fox, It’s Complicated, Up In the Air.  Our one bad call was Old Dogs, very bad.  I saw Precious on my own, as THWAM wasn’t interested but as a retired social worker I couldn’t pass it up.  My solo bad call was Men Who Stare at Goats.  Oh George, how could you?!  Well, I could write stunningly insightful and clever reviews of every one of these, but I’ll spare you that.

We almost didn’t go to see Nine, didn’t think it looked like something we’d like, an Italian musical with much artistic angst.  But what a shame if we’d missed it!  The cast, the story, the music, the energy–all really wonderful.  Daniel Day-Lewis is excellent, but really, it’s the women who take your breath away.  The young ones are remarkable–Penelope Cruz, Marion Cotillard, Kate Hudson, Fergie (maybe not so much Nicole Kidman), all excellent.  THWAM’s comment:  “That Penelope Cruz routine was just about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen!”  See, my old guy is still alive and kickin’ and appreciatin’!

But it’s the old ones who knock your socks off.

Dame Judi Dench, a longtime favorite, plays the costume designer.  She’s charming in her kicky hairdo, and she pulls off a great dance number, sexy and funny and energetic and long and full.  She’s old, and she’s really good.  I love that.

Sophia Loren, a legend, still a beauty, plays Guido’s mother, already dead when the film begins, but very much a presence.  She’s regal and quiet, but still brings her strength to the screen.  It feels like a privilege to be able to go to a new movie and experience Sophia Loren.  She’s really old now, and she’s good.  I love that.

It’s been a good movie season so far, and we’re already lining up some possibilities for January.  And we’re keeping our eyes open for the well-aged ripened old folks who still have much to bring to the screen.

Go oldies!!!

_____________________________________________

It is perhaps life’s greatest accomplishment to live to old age, maintaining one’s wits, one’s sense of humor, one’s health, and one’s charm.            Yehudi Menuhin        

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The problem is that, in my mind, until this year every family Christmas we’ve ever had was absolutely perfect.  Most everybody came, everybody loved and appreciated one another, we loved being together.  We laughed. The house was warm and smelled good, and the sweet treats were delicious.  In the beginning our children were the little ones, now the grandchildren are the little ones, although most of them are refusing to remain little.  Again, IN MY MIND everything was perfect.  I can’t say how perfect it all REALLY was.  It’s quite possible it all existed only in my imagination.

I had good early warning that attendance wouldn’t be perfect this year, and I managed that disappointment by being grown up and reasonable about it,  reminding myself that these things are bound to happen occasionally.  It was okay.  And it was perfectly fine that we’d need to delay our celebration by one day.  I know that our children have other families to accommodate and I absolutely want them to do that.  Christmas on any day of the week is fine with me.  The joyful rituals proceeded: the buying, the wrapping, the baking, the secret name drawing.  Unfortunately my anticipation of perfection remained strong.

It all began to fall apart when one branch was stranded by the blizzard in Tulsa, and it looked like they might not make it on my pre-arranged schedule.  That was followed by the news that one set of my beloveds wasn’t coming because they didn’t feel that they could be in the company of another set of my beloveds.  There was a problem among them.  At CHRISTMAS???  When Beautiful Granddaughter was bringing a special someone to meet her relatives???  He’d surely think we were a sorry excuse for a family.

I’ll say it again, I didn’t handle it at all well.  In fact I threw a pretty good fit for about an hour.  Stomping about in the kitchen, amid tears and mutterings, I managed to spill stuff and break a Christmas dish.  Then I prepared to bake a cake, but somehow I put my fingers into the beaters and the mixer turned itself on, and there I was with fingers stuck and painfully twisted.  I hollered for THWAM, who came and released me, no permanent damage done.  Then, along with the throbbing came the knowledge that both I and my behavior were ridiculous.

Spirit never fails to help us see the truth, even if  a little physical pain is required to get our attention.

Christmas turned out fine, of course.  The Tulsa folks were late, but they got here.  The ones who chose not to come were missed.  The house was warm, and smelled good.  We loved one another, and we laughed.  Beautiful Granddaughter’s special someone seemed to have a good time, and we all enjoyed his company.  And the Twisted Fingers Cake was delicious.

I’m thinking differently about Christmas now.  It will never be perfect for me again, and that’s a good thing.  I’m even considering a Christmas cruise for THWAM and me for next year, which would release my poor family from having to try to meet my silly expectations.  But that probably won’t happen, I’ll be wanting whatever kind of Christmas we can patch together, and I’ll love it.

It just won’t be perfect.

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Family … the we of me.                               Carson McCullers

Everyone had an uncle who tried to steal their nose.       Peter Kay

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1.  I have never had a deep personal relationship with a cat or a dog, so I am both envious of and a little puzzled by those who can count them as family members.

2.  Since I have become consciously intuitive, dogs have communicated with me on three separate occasions.  The spirit dog wanted me to tell his owner that he was well and happy and still with him.  The elderly dog wanted me to tell his owner how much he appreciated her loving care, but that he would be going soon and she was not to mourn too much.  The third dog expressed similar appreciation for his care, said his medical problem was not in his ears but in his head, and added that he would choose to die alone to save his owners pain.  All of them radiated love for their families.

3.  A few years ago, before my intuition fully kicked in, the ad industry briefly tried to bring back Morris the Cat in cat food commercials.  At the time and just for fun, I wrote a little piece of whimsy about a reporter who could hear Morris in his head.  I did not foresee that I would ever have the same ability, although I haven’t yet had an opportunity to test it with cats. 

Here’s what I wrote:

     Morris the Cat Tells All

I can’t say I like my newest assignment.  I’ve been sent to cover the return of Morris the Cat to public life.  You remember Morris, cuter-than-cute kitty who began pushing 9-Lives cat food back in the late sixties, early seventies.  He was a bit of a curmudgeon with a little bite of irony in his spiel.  They’re trotting him out at a “news” conference today to kick off this new campaign, and I’ll be there with the other third-stringers to get the story.  God, what story?!

The event is set up in a banquet room in a medium-swanky New York hotel.  As I step out of my cab I become part of a crowd of eager young reporters headed inside.  We’re each hoping that by some miracle we can turn this story into something so good, so original, that it will be the beginning of a grand career in print.  We always hope that. 

Inside we assemble in folding chairs facing a small table draped in a white good-quality cloth.  The table is raised on a platform and is flanked by nice chairs with padded seats.  In the center of the table sits a velveteen pillow with muted stripes of purple, blue, and gold.  By some stroke of luck (or misfortune) I have been propelled right into a seat that is front and center to the table.

Soon enough an over-groomed gentleman enters from a side door, and the crowd quiets down.  The ad guy gives us a few words of welcome, then segues right into an intro for “the greatest and most popular spokescat in the world,  Morris the Cat!”

Two men in suits enter, and one is carrying The Cat as though it might explode in his arms at any moment.  Morris wears a red collar and leash, and the logo of his company, 9-Lives, dangles under his chin.  He squints his eyes as he is settled gently upon the pillow, fluffs himself into the softness, tucks is front feet beneath his chest, and gives us all a look.  I notice that his handler never lets go of the leash. 

I prepare to take copious notes.  Then my attention is caught, for Morris’s squinchy little eyes are staring directly at me, unblinking.  I stare back into the jade-green slits, and a voice in my head speaks.

“Hey, man, what the hell are you doing here?  Looks like you’d have something better to do than show up for this crap.”

I snap my head aroundto see that my colleagues are paying rapt attention to the man who is summarizing The Cat’s career and listing the reasons for his comeback.  I busy myself with paper and pencil, but inevitably my eyes are drawn back to Morris.  Our eyes lock again.

“Don’t listen to these jerks.  I’ll tell you anything you want to know.  I am NOT Morris the Cat, don’t want to BE Morris the Cat.  The name’s Big Man.  It was a sad day when I got “rescued” for this gig.  I can’t stand that 9-Lives crud.”

Oh damn, I’m losing my mind.  I tell myself to hang on, get back on track, you’re missing the story.  But all on their own my eyes go back to his.

“Listen, fella.  I need you to get the word out for me.  They’re workin’ me to death, it ain’t right.  You think a photo-shoot’s a picnic, a commercial is a nap in the sun?  Come on, get this stuff down.  I want out, and you’re my ticket.”

There’s a shuffling of feet and the scraping of chairs and the event is over.  I watch as Morris is carried from the room, glancing backward, looking for me.  I feel bad, first because Morris the Cat will never escape his good fortune, and second because I’ll have to pass on a good story.

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Dogs come when they are called; cats take a message and get back to you.                                                    Mary Bly

Do not meddle in the affairs of cats, for they are subtle and will piss on your computer.                                               Elisabeth Riba

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So we called The Plumber, a pleasant fellow who’s done some things around here before, nice clean stuff like install a new refrigerator with ice maker, a new hot water heater.  This time it wasn’t such a nice job, but soon enough he had our drain running clear, advising us to run the water longer when grinding up the messes, which I think I do but obviously don’t.  We love The Plumber and wrote him a check for his good work and sent him away for a good long time.

Now we just needed to clean up the dishwasher, thinking that running it empty through a cycle would do the job.  Well, apparently that’s not a good idea, because by the end the water was still in the bottom, the suds were spewing if you opened the door, and there were alarming popping sounds and an odd smell.  So thus the diswasher died.

We went online to select a new dishwasher from Sears.  Did you know that it is possible to spend OVER $1000 on a dishwasher!!  We had to look hard to find a practical little appliance that just washes, rinses, and dries dishes.  I really think the others must do all that plus vacuum and dust your front room, fold your laundry, and make your kid’s school lunch.  Seriously!  So a hefty chunk of change went on the credit card, and delivery was scheduled.  The two deliverymen were very nice and went the extra mile (1/16 of a mile?) to drive around the alley and bring it in the back.  We didn’t have to give them a check, but I did promise a perfect rating of 5 when I am called about their service.  They were definitely worth a five.

So we called back The Plumber, who of course was more than happy to come and install our new dishwasher and haul away the poor dead carcass of the old one.  And while he was at it, he would also redirect the plumbing so that stuff from the disposal doesn’t back itself into the dishwasher.  All of this was accomplished over several hours of hard labor, and we sent The Plumber away again with a significantly bigger check than the first time.  We are happy with the dishwasher, even though it does make a lot of noise and it doesn’t do any tricks.

Next, in the middle of the coldest week, the furnace began blowing only cold air, and it refused to shut off.  You could hear it laughing at us as we shivered and complained bitterly.  Of course we called the Furnace Man, who fortunately came early the morning following a night of temperatures in the low 20’s.  He set to work, went off to buy a valve, and by lunch time blessed warmth had returned to our home.  Now we love our Furnace Man, who went off with the biggest check of all.  Warmth on a cold day is nearly priceless!

Practically at the same moment that the Furnace Man was driving away in his truck, one of our toilets was refusing to fill itself up after flushing.  We won’t be calling The Plumber on this one.  THWAM will fix it, but right now he is so exhausted from writing all those checks and such that I don’t know when he’ll get to it.  So if you need to use the toilet at our house, just remember to take the lid off the tank and lift up that little thingy in there and let the water in for the next person who needs to flush.  It’s the polite thing to do.

And finally:  We have a spectacular Christmas lighting display on our house, as we do every year.  It takes us three days to put it up, three days to come down.  Did I mention it’s spectacular?  But we’ve just blown a fuse or something on one string, and half the lights aren’t working, making the display look lopsided and peculiar.  I’m just not going to mention it to THWAM until the outside temperature rises a bit. 

I hope YOU are having a minor-disaster-free holiday season!

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The father loves his boy very much.  He loves him so much that he wants him to have all the good things in life:  academic success, friends, good health, success in a sport, passionate interests, everything.  He just wants his boy to be happy, because he loves him so much.  So the father vows to help his boy be happy and successful; this is a loving father’s job, isn’t it?  Of course.

The boy loves his father very much and wants desperately to please him.  But he wonders if he can be good enough.  The more the loving father tries to help, the more doubtful the boy becomes.   He is very sad, thinking he is failing his father and himself.

Eventually the boy is brave enough to tell someone that he is so sad that he is thinking about suicide, or, he says, maybe going away somewhere “to be fixed.” 

The father is devastated to learn that his boy is suffering in such a way.  He struggles to understand, but it is difficult.  He finds someone to help, and medication is prescribed.

The father wonders why loving his boy enough to willingly do everything possible to help him succeed in life is not enough.

The boy wonders why being himself is not enough, why the father wants everything about him to be different, better.

No one is wrong in this story, and the ending is yet to be written.  Hopefully, loving and counseling will lead to understanding, and understanding will lead to healing.  It could be a long and arduous  journey, but one that moves toward acceptance for both the boy and the loving father.

Let us be hopeful.

Amen.

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