I dove and never wanted to come up
When I was twelve, my father blacked out at the nearby Strawberry recreation pool and slipped on its deck, split his elbow open, blood everywhere. I don’t know how he made it home. The next morning, he sat outside on our patio, remorseful and bloated, with a huge white gauze bandage around his punctured elbow. Continue reading “drunk man’s daughter” »
adoring affection
My chihuahua looks at me with such much adoration that it makes me wonder what did I do to deserve such love. I’m not the greatest master, not bad, but not one who spends endless hours petting and hugging him. We sit on the couch at night, and he unblinkingly stares at me as if I determine when the sun sets and the moon rises. I am the center of his universe.
This little guy is my most loyal friend in the world. He waits and adores, how to respond? He’s thrilled when I deem him worthy of attention, and he smiles with joy. He’s a little cutie pie. Other dogs have loved me, and I love them, but Frosty/Cubby stands alone with his loving gazes. My husband and I have two names for him.
Frosty licks, though, and it’s a problem because I don’t like to be flick-licked. He can’t help it, even when I tell him “no.” He’s compulsive. He’s desperate for my approval, and wants all of my attention. He doesn’t seem embarrassed by his neediness. He doesn’t seem to care where it came from, either.
I’m compulsive too. I annoy my friends and family. I don’t lick like Frosty does, thank God, but I get on their nerves when I’m feeling needy. I don’t need to know why I feel needy, just recognize the feeling and not judge it when it arises.
I want to not be embarrassed. I want to try having some patience with neediness as part of my character.
I bet my Chihuahua doesn’t know how much he has taught me to better identify my feelings and not be ashamed.
trying to change the world
I thought Beatniks of the 1950’s and 1960’s were the most creative nonconformists in the world. Hanging out in coffee shops with friends, sharing political and artistic efforts that changed the world was important in New York’s Greenwich village. As a kid, San Francisco’s North Beach expanded my desire to create beauty, and tell the truth. I was a fourteen year-old hippie and I sang folk music during the “Summer of Love.” It was the year before my father committed suicide.
Pete Seeger was a brave role model, and I memorized Turn Turn Turn and the time for every purpose under Heaven. My friend’s brother in-law Earl was the first Marine I knew who was killed in Vietnam, leaving his widowed young wife and two baby girls. Singing Dylan’s Blowing in the Wind reinforced my belief that I did not want any more people to die.
Courageous ideas were changing America. African Americans were marching for equality. My Episcopal minister in Mill Valley divided members of his congregation because he marched in Selma, Alabama.
In college, I protested against Plutonium and the proliferation of nuclear weapons. I do not want more bombs dropped on this globe.
I believe the adage, “Think Globally, and Act Locally.” I want artists to continue believing in causes, organizing fundraisers to make the world better. I taught in public schools because I love young people, and I want to empower them.
We can inspire each other. We have a history of music inspiring hope. Listening to the old folksongs continues caring.
Each generation includes people who want change. Long live activists who strive for change. Long live vibrant young people.
warm feet are comforting
Seeking comfort can be a learned skill. My counselor taught me how to feel better when I found myself overwhelmed by life. She made suggestions I pass on in this blog.
She first recommended a book called something like “Ways to Create Comfort” which I read while standing in a bookstore. Thank you to the author whose name I do not recall at this time because there were some comforting tips.
One suggestion was to understand that comfort is a good thing. We deserve to be treated with comfort and not be hard on ourselves. It was suggested that I find warmth, with a cup of tea, bath, sitting wrapped in a blanket before a fire, even a candle and try to calm down. Low lights provide a safe feeling, too. I have set mood lights around my house at night, during times of great stress, and am lucky to have a fireplace. When I was broke and struggling, neighbors let me to tear apart their old fences and haul them away in my Toyota Tercell, with a hatchback full of super dry firewood, enough for one evening. I felt twice warmed, like I helped my neighbor and myself.
I stuffed my face with comfort foods and gained weight, not a good way to go. The fat on my thighs did nothing to quiet my heart.
I struggle with reaching out to others. I would rather bleed to death than call someone for a tourniquet. My lifetime goal has been not to feel ashamed of needing comfort. Healing happens when I pick up the phone and talk to a trusted friend.
I also used suggested psychological strategies, like “naming, claiming, and letting go.” I isolate pain and discomfort by naming it, saying, “I feel hurt.” I try and give up the emotion by praying for relief or by screaming to get the pain out of my body.
I can remember that discomfort will surely pass, and I will not die from negative feelings, even though it feels that way.
Writing this blog comforts me because I am telling the truth. I pass on what learned, and trust that someone may read. Perhaps some comforting tips may also work for others.
my father’s ashes rest here
My neighbor Mike is getting bored with living. She’ll be 91 next week, and wants “to curl up like an old dog” in her bed and stay there. I went over for a visit yesterday, and laid beside her talking in the bed. Her husband’s ashes rest under his pillow in an urn beside her every night. Mike does things her way. Continue reading “truth and friendship” »
It’s clear I loved my father
I’m emotional because of this horrid anniversary day. Forty-eight years ago my father put a gun to his head and died. It’s irreversible. I’m the last family member to endure this day. Anyone who copes with suicide understands the devastating rip of losing our love. Continue reading “commemoration” »
fire took it all
Lynn and Charlie lost nearly everything in the 2015 Butte Fire of Calaveras County. They physically survived and for awhile lived in a tent city at the frog jumping fairgrounds. Fortunately an insurance settlement allowed them to buy another home in nearby Amador County and relocate within the year.
Their story is better than most, but it’s so sad. Our fire anniversary is coming up. Anniversaries are often cause for reflection. I had a reflective conversation with Lynn and Charlie yesterday at their nearly empty new house, with no trees and neighbors who can see into windows. Far cry from acres of shady privacy.
“You see things like this happen to people on TV when they lose everything. We see and feel sad for them, but turn back to our own lives. The intensity of their loss has to be lived to be believed…I am never going to be the same.”
Lynn lost her genealogical heritage in the fire, revolutionary war antiques and precious things in keepsake boxes stored away for future generations, gone.
I was moved to write poetry for her.
Blessings to all who lost so much.
2015 Butte fire legacy
my jeweler friend no longer works
a blobmelt inventory breaks her heart
incomprehensible to those who weren’t evacuated
transform twenty minutes before the house burns down into an ugly nightmare
only rubble survives its raw beauty
cherry-pick my jewelry box when my brain says
“I’m coming back”
who wears melted gold around her neck when its clasp no longer opens?
what does the new back look like?
how does a dish cope in a new shape?
will the teacup hang without its handle?
rusty hacksaw suspends in burnt wood
where is the bed when only its twisted box springs remain?
remember heat snap shards in gray ash dirt
water turns to mud where there was once a garden
my godson fishes in Alaska
During the four years I lived on Prince of Wales Island, Alaska, my dearest friend asked me to be her son’s godmother. I felt such honor to be asked. He was a month younger than my infant son. If I had stayed on the island, the boys would have grown up to be like brothers. But I left POW as a single mother, remarried, and raised both of my sons in the same California neighborhood where I grew up. Continue reading “listening to my heart” »
dysfunctional families are like mobiles
American parents are supposed to train children to handle life, and deal with problems. The big families of our past assigned children to raise each other. Older sister takes care of younger ones, and the oldest one paves the way. Continue reading “thinking through craziness” »
haunting history
My brother played the bagpipes with The Prince Charles Pipe Band. He walked Ring Mountain playing his pipes at sunset, as if he belonged in Scotland. Neighbors remind me of his haunting silhouette during those years. Since he didn’t live to be an adult, bagpipes remain for me as a symbol of love and strength and loss. Continue reading “bagpipes, love and loss” »