We must take care
My son Brian went to Children’s Circle Center in Tiburon for daycare as a toddler when I went to work, and the teachers loved to sing. I remember many songs they sang to him as a little guy, because he sang the songs to me many, many times. Clearly those songs made an impact.
“The earth is our mother
We must take care of her
The earth is our mother
We must take care of her” Continue reading “Consider the words” »
my tubes in snow
My childhood friend’s very short mother stood eye to eye in front of me, a seven-year old, and shook her finger at me, “YOU are so BIG!” I remember thinking, “big was bad.” I wondered why I was not seen for who I was. When I grew to over 5’10” and over two hundred pounds at certain points of my life, men and women have called me ‘a force.’ Something is dreadfully wrong. I scare people who think they know me, but they don’t know my insides.
I do not think of myself as big, or a force. I am strong enough to move a roll top desk by myself, shovel a ditch and spread forty five-gallon buckets of pea gravel into a zen garden. I have always felt like an athlete, not a fast one, but capable of swimming over a mile at a time without struggle. I rely on my strength to feel accomplished. I have felt shame and confusion from being judged because of it.
My pinball approach to life, acting and then feeling weird about what I did, is part of my character. I’m trying to articulate what is going on inside of me. Continue reading “Where does the inside meet the outside?” »
Yipee! My first blueberry picking invitation! Carol and Sandy invited me, and picked me up early in the next morning. We drove up Lily Gap road ten miles to Mills You-Pick Blueberry Farm outside of West Point, California, acres of blueberries, with hundreds of bushes, all types and sizes. Three dollars per pound for you-pick, about half the cost in a store these days. The area is netted over the hundreds of bushes, so birds don’t win the picking game. The sun wasn’t up yet, so it was still cool.
Sandy pulled her car up to a nearby little trailer used for headquarters, and I watched a skunk scurry out from the bushes, and run under the fence into the woods. Mr.Mills came over on his all terrain vehicle to greet us and get us going. One gallon milk jugs cut open at the top hung from a tree, for use as collecting buckets. My friends had brought their own containers, but I only brought plastic bags, so I tried his milk jug method, very easy. Continue reading “Blueberries for Carol, Sandy and Pru” »
I realize that not everyone is into a cat like I am. Some people don’t like them at all. I am not going to convince someone who has no cat connection to make one, either. Throughout my life, my cats have been my companions and have saved my sanity, no joke. I am writing a tribute to my last grey cat.
Right now, my last grey cat sits on my lap and he has been here for over an hour, occasionally waking up to offer a little purr when I move my leg. He’s got the longest claws I’ve ever known a cat to have, and they catch on whatever clothes I’m wearing, which means many of my clothes have claw ravels in them from his sharp spears. It’s not the claws I love about him, but I do love that he has major claws, for his own protection. He’s used them a few times on my skin and that hurts. I stay away from the claws, if possible.
I love the ways most cats I know get named. They usually have nicknames, or layers of names. My cat is no exception. When he was a kitten, his name started off as B.T., standing for bent tail, but we immediately changed that when we took him home. Although his tail still takes a sharp right angle at the tip, it matters naught to us. His basic name has always been Cookie, because he is so sweet looking. But he is not a sweet little guy at all. He is strong like a Rock, which naturally became his middle name. His final characteristic is the lionlike strength of his presence, like “I am HERE.” So we went for the Spanish word, ‘Son,’ plural of Soy, To be, and for us it means, “so they are.” We interpret it this way because he is as Bad Ass as two cats, which he truly is. Therefore, I have a Bad Ass cat named Cookie Rockerson. Continue reading “Cat Connection” »
Mooka knew how to let his imagination bloom
My nurse friend sent me a link to a nursing journal article about Guided Imagery used as a valid nursing tool. I’m responding to this topic from a liberal arts point of view. I have healed from Guided Imagery experiences and happily share them with you, in hopes you will find them useful.
Theatre was a wonderful major in college, and I had a blast in those classes. So many opportunities to grow and develop various skills, writing, performing, directing, designing and constructing stage sets, working in the team spirit to accomplish deadlines. In my opinion, Liberal Arts majors like those of us in Theatre, can respect what we learned in our classes. For instance, in basic theatre classes, we learned to relax and concentrate with visualization exercises, and it was there I first learned about Guided Imagery.
Mr.Rogers mom told him to
look for the helpers
for us who care about seven generations of blood coursing our veins
for past insignificances that keep us up late
on cloudy nights when trees are all black and still the sky is blue
for present insecurities because we haven’t cured cancer
or kept the sun from going out
or prevented our children from growing up and moving away like we did
Continue reading “this is a prayer for all of us who try do something with our lives” »
In 1996, I felt a tremendous need to visit Israel and walk the land where Jesus walked, especially around Galilee, and look at what he called a sea. I found a practical nine-day tour available, ‘ The Historical Jesus Tour.’ Being a teacher allowed me time to travel, and I have been to many places alone, which has its advantages and disadvantages. For this trip, I knew I wasn’t going to easily find places, since I don’t speak Hebrew or know about necessary permits. Greek Easter Week coincided with my spring break, so I made plans to take a tour.
A bus blew up in Jerusalem the week before I left, and it was a dangerous time. My desire rose to a ‘pilgrimage’ level after that. My second child was four years old. I could be leaving him forever. Was trip was worth dying for? If I died in Israel, that would be my fate. I needed to see Jerusalem. I was going, bombs or no bombs.
My husband didn’t question my decision to go. I paid for the trip myself, and didn’t ask permission. He drove me to San Francisco’s International Airport. My private quest, unlike any before, sent me on my way.
Continue reading “Visiting Israel during Greek Easter Week” »