Ruhiyyih and Bonita - 2005

What a Gorgeous Day

My boys and I explored the Tacoma Farmer's Market this afternoon. They head in one direction, looking for friends and standing around 'looking cool', and I videotape the experience, walking through stalls, talking to vegetable vendors, and checking the flowers and fruit. Lots of cherries are available, and flats of raspberries. Home-made soap and jam, hand-made furniture, crafts galore. Music groups play, also amatures, with a guitar case open for a donation. I enjoyed milling around, and brought home a bouquet of flowers.

Just a really nice day, 74 degrees, slight wind, the fragrance of flowers....and loads of sunshine.

Buddhist Thoughts

from THE CLOUDS SHOULD KNOW ME BY NOW - Buddhist Monks in China:

"Deep among ten thousand peaks I sit alone cross-legged,
A solitary thought fills my empty mind.
My body is the moon that lights the winter sky.
In rivers and in lakes are only its reflections."

The Good Women of China

I'll receive my last phone call from Ruhiyyih today, before she lands in China. Oh, she might call me from there, but the conversations are monitored, and everything we say has to be laced with constraint and vigilance. She will read my journal here, but not comment, and we will have frequent e-mails. They will be carefully done.

THE GOOD WOMEN OF CHINA is written by Xinran, and is one of my favorites:

"When you walk into your memories, you are opening a door into the past; the road within has many branches, and the route is different every time."

Ruyiyyih, dear, make wonderful memories. . . I love you.

Just Fragments

Just sweeping out the fragments that kept me awake last night about 2:00 a.m. :

Asolo, a tiny village 40 miles from Venice
a pre- Roman fortress resting in the lap of hills
the coast , summer nights,
lights in boats at sea
stars tangled among them
fishermen, lanterns, octopus
wading among seaweed, rocks
fireflies in the luminous mist
land and sea merging, the distant blue
streets lined with crooked porticos
irregular and uneven stones on the road
masses of Iris, yellow roses, baby's breath
the small temporal pulses of love
timeless radiance, everlasting care
Neolithic days, chipped flint
Monolithic temples long ago
Phoenicians, Greece, Rome
mason's chissel on Gothic saint
wool merchants, silk from China
the magic of a first arrival
a uniform shadowy gentleness
oxcarts hauling white marble
sun-warmed Tuscan seacoast, sunbathers
tethered coasting vessels, men repairing nets
furled yellow sails, the reflection in the water
and sand fragments, shining micca, marble, and a fluted shell
composites of sounds, songs of birds and floating air
voices of wind, whispers, the noise of crows and crowds
speech derived from all ancestors and feelings
alpine brooks, waves on sand, water wheels

Almost every night my brain takes me on journeys like this, about 2:00 am. I get up for work about 4:30, and I am always sleep-deprived from all these fragments competing for attention.

Good Literature

Putting the book down, George said, " Thank you for bringing such good literature into our home."

I said, "It has nothing to do with me...the book was just displayed at eye level on the shelf where I could see it!"

A Prayerful Life

Naguib Mahfouz was a Nobel Prize Laureate who wrote many books, including his autobiography. ECHOES OF AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY, CHILDREN OF THE ALLEY and THE CAIRO TRILOGY are prominent works. His vignettes are short due to the need for brevity, he could not work more than a half hour a day after the attempted assination on his life. A thought of his is here, "A GIFT":

In the solitude and frailty of old age, contemplation spreads like the aroma of incense. He said to his friend who devoted himself to worship, as though apologizing, "With the pressing concerns of my family and the demands of things generally, my life was squandered and I didn't find the time for worship.

That night he was visited in his dreams by someone who made him a present of a white rose and whispered in his ear, "A gift that is deserved only by sincere worshipers!"
~Naguib Mahfouz

In the Shadow of Memory

When I was in the 3rd grade, I was hit by a car while on my bike. I was thrown to the curb, then taken to the hospital. I had a head injury, and during the following year I suffered severe nightmares and had to be drugged at bedtime so family members could sleep. I would wake up screaming. I remember nothing about the 3rd and 4th grade, due to those medications.

In those days, head injuries were not discussed much in the field of education, and I became aware that most kids learned things differently than I did. I had to work harder, and I retained very little of the hard work. I had one teacher that knew where my strengths were, a history teacher when I was in the 10th grade. He had me give reports to the class, make maps, and show my notes to the class - you see, I outlined everything I read in world history. But, when the tests results would come back, I always got an F.

It wouldn't have mattered that I spent hours studying, my mind couldn't hold tons of details. But, this teacher continued to encourage my map-making with colored pencils and India Ink. I continued to present topics of global interest to the class, like I was his little helper. One day he presented a test with only one requirement - if you knew the answer, write it. If not, do not answer the question. There were 50 questions, I answered one or two, and held my head down in disqust and embarrasment as I handed my paper to this esteemed teacher.

He was Mr. Oxenholt, Great Falls High School. For the year, he gave me straight A's. To this day I study history, make maps, and still take notes! He kept alive this joy in learning about history by never letting anyone put me down. He made me a star in the classroom.

Over the years, I studied learning disabilities, and it seems I always have something on my reading table on the subject. One interesting book is IN THE SHADOW OF MEMORY by Floyd Skloot, in which he describes his life after a virus damaged his brain.

INTO THE SILENT LAND by Paul Broks explores neuropsychology, such as how the brain constructs a self, the essence of who we are. Broks explores the amygdala, which is responsible for memory. He explores the flow dynamics of autism, where a thought is stuck in the left brain hemisphere. Thinking is rigid, categorical and analytic. If the channel of the corpus callosum (which links right and left hemispheres) could be unblocked, both sides of the brain would merge. This would bring an exchange of information processes, and thinking/being would be more synchronized. Ordinary consciousness would flourish, normally.

What I've learned over the years, is to work with what I've got, and to look for little surprises.

Blowing the Whistle

Our son Taraz, who is 23, is on the slender, short side, like me. He's got real kinky-curly gold hair that he bleaches off-white on the tips, and when he washes his hair, all these curls tighten up and strut out like a bunch of pretzels. Needless to say, he is an attention-getter. When he walks down the mall, people walk over to him and give him a big smile. They ask him if he works in a rock band, and they give him these weird hand-shakes. Taraz makes their day just by the way he looks.

But, Taraz also is hard-wired for stress sensitivity. It's a need to have things look a certain way in a room - simple, clean. If he wore a label, it would be 'compulsive'.

When he was little, he could not sit still, he had too much running through his head. And to keep himself entertained, he manufactured sounds - the Popeye pop, tongue clicks, a loud whistle, a tape rewinding, bubbles bubbling, and of course, farts.

I remember, when he was in early grade school, Taraz's basketball coach called me at home to come pick up Taraz. He had created mayhem on the basketball court. Now, the coach knows Taraz has trouble being fidgity and can get impatient. But, he helps Taraz play ball, lined up with all the others, waiting to dribble the ball down the length of the gym. I guess it was WAITING that got to Taraz,

Now Taraz loved basketball; loved lining up in a row with all the other kids, dribbling, shooting the baskets, blocking other guys. He worked hard at it, in his little shorts and purple T-shirt.

But, this day, he was Mr. Intensity. When all the players lined up to dribble their balls across the court, they were instructed to dribble their balls all the way down to the far end of the gym and back - and not to loose control of the ball.

The coach would blow a whistle when all was ready. He'd say, 'ready, get set, GO!'

Well, Taraz was so ready for that whistle, his ears were burning for it! His legs were bent and ready, straining! His ball was propped and ready to bounce...

Whatever held back the coach became unbearable for Taraz. Maybe it was the quiet, everyone listening, waiting. All he remembered was his concentration became too acute, and HIS MOUTH took over!:

B b b b b b b b r r r r r r r r r r i i i i i i i i i n n n n n n n g g g g g g g!!

All the little kids in shorts and purple shirts started pounding their balls down the gym. The coach looked up perplexed and yelled, 'STOP, STOP, STOP!'

Balls boomeranged in all directions, kids skidded to a halt, and Taraz kept going! He made it to the finish. He did it! The coach walked over to him and restricted him to the sidelines. To the bench. But, while sitting there, Taraz marveled that such a perfect whistle could come from him!

He practiced it in the locker room, and on the sidewalk while he walked home. The next day it blurted out at odd moments...it was like a period at the end of a sentence, heralding 'finished' as well as 'go'.

For years the family listened to that whistle - it kept us all together on hikes up on Mt. Rainier. It echoed across water when we went canoeing, kinda perking up all the dogs snoozing on patios. And, as Taraz's mom, if he was out playing somewhere, I always knew where to find him. His teachers, well, they always wondered, 'Where did that come from?', and they'd be taking Taraz into the principal's office!

Language Barriers

from my journal, May 21, 1991:

Well, the Cambodians are through with the English lesson, and George asked them if they'd like to stay for dinner. Liver and onions. Do they like liver and onions?

They were struggling to put a picture image to the liver. Liver. L I V E R. An explanation, a body organ. COW.

I looked up from my writing and said, somewhat exasperated, "Oh, George, just SHOW them the container of raw liver. They'll know." ( And, they wouldn't want to stay for dinner!)

Right, again!

You're the Cream in My Coffee

My husband found the Baha'i Faith when he was a student at the University of Illinois. He had grown up in a household where GOD was a 4-letter word. His parents had socialist leanings, and his father had experience in the KKK in Indiana. His mother worked as a Peace Activist most of her adult life, raising money to get people out of prison in foreign countries. The FBI investigated this little ole lady at one time, and found her, bedridden, with phone lists, and newspaper clippings about anyone who was unjustly being held prisoner. She got awards for her work, as a peace activist. And, George, her youngest son, loved the cause of PEACE. The goals of the Baha'i Faith address that, and he picked up where his mother left off.

Throughout my marriage with George, his high-minded committment to the Faith, was sometimes a bone of contention for me (paradox, there!) I married for a little companionship! And, the cause of peace, well, it could wait!

From my journal, August 8, 1995:

Today I put on my Ivan Doig tape, "This House of Sky", and baked a couple apple pies. I get awlful homesick whenever the weather turns, like it did last night; the wind blowing and howling, the temperatures dropping, and a foreboding of fall. Birds flocked up over the old cottonwood tree - I'm ready for fall!

Makes me feel wistful.

And, wouldn't you know it, George plans to help the Cambodians practice their English tonite! Seems like he's had a meeting almost every night this week - Feast, fireside, deepening, Ethnic Fest, Baha'i Booth, Choir Practice, Public Talk, LSA, and now helping the Cambodians.

I told him I'd like a little companionship! It's like, "Do I know you?" when he crawls into bed at night! Last night, I waited up, and he showed me a songbook he checked out at the Library. We started singing in bed, like a couple of coyotes out on the prairie:

Best Songs of the 40's and 50's:

"Talk to Me" - did they have that problem, too?

"Love and Marriage" - (we sang that one)

"Put 'Em In a Box, Tie 'Em with a Ribbon, and Throw 'Em in the Deep Blue Sea" ( so that's how they handled child rearing stresses)

"When the Red, Red Robin Comes Bob, Bob, Bobbin' Along" (we sang this one)

"What Ever Will Be Will Be" (Que Sera Sera)

"Blueberry Hill" ( we had deep vocals on this one)

and "You're The Cream in My Coffee" (how innocent! So different from, "I Wanna Shoup")

Sure weren't sleeping after that, so we went out into the garden. And, he hummed a tune, grabbed me close, and spun me around. There we were, dancing in the middle of the garden! As I caught my breath, I laughed and said, " I 've lost my sense of direction!", and I hung onto him for dear life!

The Pull of Ethnicity

People of strong ethnic traditions hold on to their ethnicity because it provides comfort and continutity. They celebrate a sense of personal identity that gives meaning to their lives amid the changing conditions around them. Governments may change, but one's ethnic attachments endure. They are passed on from generation to generation.

Look around, see who is celebrating it. Sometimes its on the mantle over the fireplace, in a frame. Sometimes in a phrase or word, a 'giveaway'. It's definitely on the table, maybe frybread or Swedish pancakes with a dusting of powdered sugar. You get to know someone long enough, they'l show you how they planted a garden in the Ukraine, even though they now live here. They will let down their guard, and unwrap things in the cedar chest, long hidden away.

Little keepsakes of a culture, with the pull of their ethnicity.

Haven Lake - Washington

Early morning misting aside, it was a great day for a paddle! The sun peeked out just as we got to Belfair. It is a sleepy little mountain town, and Haven Lake my favorite type - lots of old, tiny cabins dot the lake. One thing about vacation property, it seems there is always the sound of a power tool - saws, drills, weed-wackers, - always someone adding on to their house, or improving it. I'd like a more remote place, with just the sound of wind rustling the pines and a gentle breeze off the water. You'd get lost in the quiet, put to sleep by the sun.

I filmed the glide, when I wasn't needed for paddling. Managed to get lots of quaint cabins, with smoke coming out of chimneys. A few dogs ran down to the dock, getting territorial, and their owner waved and scolded them. We just glided by, knowing they sure wouldn't jump into the water. A little wind came up, gave us just a gentle nudge home.

Just a sweet little glide - my favorite!

The Disintegration of Islam

In U.S. News and World Report, June 2005, on 'Secrets of Islam' , Susan Headden infers that the 'glory days of Islam have passed.' Muslims fought the Christian Crusaders in the 11th century, and the Ottomans also lost their vision of an Islamic Europe. Today, we see Islam in the hands of fanatics and self-serving, corrupt dictators, all of whom interpret the message of the Koran in a manner that serves their own self-interests.

The glory days of Islam have passed.

Religions are like the trees in the forest, subject to growth, flourishing, and decay. They have organic growth. And, when a religion reaches its pinnacle of impact it starts to dimminish, gradually becoming less and less effective in addressing the needs of a current humanity.

When this happens, the leaders of the religion will attempt to 'rewrite' or restore the power and direction of the faith, in an attempt to reinvigorate the power and vision of the religion. All kinds of miss-starts, and misshaps occur, and desperation sets in, much like a cancer patient will grab at any remedy to restore his life.

But, the process of decay, even in religion, is a natural process. It is not an evil thing. What is then needed is a new Voice, that addresses contemporary issues with a progressive voice. That is what is needed today, a new Vision, a new Voice.

I've found that Voice in the teachings of the Baha'i Faith. Baha'u'llah was born in Iran, and his family is descended from Muhammad. He came from a prosperous, educated family. He saw the plight of Islam as it was being practiced, and he was aware of the corrupt nature of the Mullahs in Iran. He spoke out against the corruption and was put in prison, then banished from Iran. He lived in Bagdad, Iraq with his family for a short time, and there he addressed his followers with the directives of his mission. He was banished again, to Israel, where he lived the remainder of his life. During that time, he wrote his teachings down, and outlined a vision for humanity. A vision that fulfills all the promises of Jesus, Moses, the Buddha, and all the noble spiritual Messengers of the past.

You walk in the forest. Notice the trees, some are new and fragile. Some are old and decaying. Some are toppling over, and taking many others down in their wake.

Just notice, you'll see.

The Secrets of Islam

I'm reading U.S. News and World Report's 'Secrets of Islam'. I hope to more thoroughly understand this great world religion, and the role it will play in the future. I am not a scholar, just a simple woman, trying to understand the forces at play in the world. The force of the West is up against Islam. In other words, two different ways of living in the world are butting heads.

The West is all about individual freedoms, including the freedom to believe or not to believe in God and Religion. It is about politics protecting the growth of our material culture. We try to live a materially rich lifestyle, have a secular education, and provide well for our children. And, because of our freedom, we can live lifestyles that reek of excess. Our pursuits can be corrupt and self-serving to the extreme.

The way of the East is so different - Islam exalts submission. The entire way of life is subdued, careful of others. There is no self-agrandizing. The spiritual health of the community is the goal. The rhythm of the day is not started on a freeway, stuck in traffic, perhaps a Starbucks in hand. For a Muslim, the day starts with the call of the Muezzin, with a call to prayer.

I try to remember that Islam started when Muhammad just simply wanted to unify the tribes in Arabia. He ran a camel caravan, and the routes over the desert were dangerous. If he could find a way to bring peace and collaboration to the maurading tribes, his business enterprize would go more smoothly, and he would retain his profit! When he applied the force of Islamic governance to Arabia, the tribes became united and he became a sucessful trader.

An entire way of life was created that gave greater meaning to peoples lives. But, should the message of Islam have stopped right there? What was prudent 500 years ago may not be prudent now. As Islam spreads, we will be answering this question. How will we find harmony between these two distinctly different lifestyles, and how will they change? Only the future will tell....

I hope the materialism of the West dimminishes. I hope for a lifestyle and a way of being that is more careful, more spiritual. I hope for personal excellance, but not at the expense of any culture. And, the means must justify the end. A holy Jihad, in my opinion, is an inner war, over the insistent demands of evil practice and the ego. The extremist, fundamentalist, and warmongering positions taken by Jihadists today seem to be a miss-interpretation of the beauty and force of the message of Muhammad. In other words, the missuse of Religion.

For me, the proceedures toward PEACE require careful consideration. The means bring about the end. What I hope for is that it be done with care.

Pre-menopausal Systems

I'm feeling rotten.

For the second time in the past half year, my ovaries have spurt out the wrong hormone at ovulation, and rather than ovulate and feel playful, I'm socked with another menstral period! And there being no tissue of any consequence to shed, the womb squeezes harder to shed 'nothing'! The cramping is tedious and painful.

I've personified my ovaries. They are an over-worked crew yelling at each other:

"Hey Mac, the right one malfunctioned last month, gave her a light flow. Lets set up a real shoe this time. Set up the left."

"Rudy, can you get the left to proceed?"

Mac yells, "The left wants to wait another two weeks. How are we gunna proceed? She's gunna be madder'n Hell!"

"Since when have we consulted Her! Let the old broad put her hornies on the shelf until the 23rd." Rudy's getting impatient. They set up gearshifts, pushed a few buttons, turned a lever, and the main valve sputtered.

"For Christ sakes, Rudy, put some punch into it. Let's get this show on the road!" A gauge needle struts and struggles to a maximum percentage mark on a little round clock. It gets steamed over. The needle sticks at 30%. Rudy cleans it off with his sleeve.

"O Shit! Mack! Non-production, Non-production!" They glare at each other, looking pudgy and enept, obviously old-timers ready to collect retirement pay but biding their time until management puts them on the shelf.

"We could think about this over coffee." Rudy says, wiping his forehead.

"That's the trouble with you, Rudy, if I hadn't beeen runnin' the show for the past 36 years this ole lady wouldn't of had all those brats and she'd still be paintin' corny landscapes and dancing in her livingroom at midnight in her nightgown! " He takes out a fat cigar, unwraps it and shoves it in his mouth. He pushes it into his mouth and clenches his teeth down, then says, "Hand me that wrench." He attempts a readjustment. "How's she holding up?"

Rudy looks over his shoulder, "Eh , She's doubled over, Mack. For Christ sake, loosen up!" The wrench slips and bangs Mack on the knee. He gets to boiling!

"Problem is, none of this shit is up to standard anymore! Can't get replacement parts, can't clean out the system!" Mack scratches his head. "Let's get some coffee. Besides, the ole lady is writing out her list of 'Things To Do Today'. Let's give her a break." He takes his cigar out of his mouth and throws it into the trash and says to Rudy, "God, those pre-menopausal systems are a BITCH!"


from my journal, Thursday, June 16, 1993

Cleaning Frenzy

George is getting all his music, speakers, audio mixer, CD player and STUFF to 'electrocute' all of it so it will be ready for a wedding reception today at 2:00. The rest of us are stuck in the mess here at home...its cleaning day.

We've got bedding to wash and hang out on the line, if the rain stops. My boys, Taraz and Rahmat cleaned out the refrigerator. They took everything out and really cleaned everything good. We do this when George is not hovering, because we throw out all of his left-over sauces, soup broths and grease-cans. He says these are good for starting all kinds of wonderful meals, but, who wants left-over bacon grease from last month!

I cleaned out all the kitchen drawers, sorting things, and getting rid of lots of miss-matched plastic stuff that just piles up. When I'm packing my lunches in the morning, I can rarely find lids for a small serving dish, and culling through 50 pieces of plastic ware just to find a bottle top is a nuisance. So I simplify all it by having just a few sizes, and reducing the clutter.

Having two adult children back home again, hopefully for only a short time, means that my closets and storage spaces become trashed with their stuff, to the ceiling! What was once a cute little house, now feels like a Men's Dorm! A CD player is jammed under the bathroom sink. Men's shoes line the shelf by the door. Chords are plugged into the TV, in front, for some kind of video game, so the cable and video components of the TV are always off. Not that I use the TV that much, but I would like to have things in working order so that when I do want to watch CNN news, I don't have to call one of the boys to redesign all the systems.

The boys have swept and mopped, I did up the dishes, and organized the towels under the bathroom sink. And it looks like the house feels more like home, a clean home. And you know, it will stay that way, until George gets home...then, he will pile all 8 speakers in front of the fireplace. His CD player and some 8 boxes of music will sit on top of them, and my living room will look like a sound stage until he gets this junk put away. His motivation for that depends on inclination, and no irons in the fire. His schedule is packed all weekend, with a class and a Baha'i Booth at Taste of Tacoma.

So, I'd better enjoy the ambience of a clutter-free house now!

Solitary Confinement

From my journal - January 1994:

A counsellor at the Boys and Girls Club called. He wants Taraz to stop holding his breath and passing out. Its against the rules, and besides, he could bang his head on impact.

At school today, Taraz mooned a little girl out on the playground, and was given an in-house suspension. Thats a full day secluded in a small closet with just a tiny window in the door that looks out on office traffic. That way, office personel can keep an eye on the offender inside.

Taraz did his homework there for several hours, sitting at a small desk. Upon completion, he watched office proceedures, a lot of moving mouthes without voices, a lot of phone calls without sound. This is called sensory deprivation, and for kids, it is true punishment. But, for Taraz, who has difficulty with distraction and overload, it was a true working environment! He actually benefited from the isolation! But, he wished to leave an imprint of his time spent there, like a prisoner in solitary confinement making X's on the calendar or scribbles on the wall.

He looked around. Not a mark was on the wall or ceiling here - probably painted over if ever there was one. But, more than likely, no one dared miss-behave in that closet!

So, he did the only thing likely to be un-noticed. He took the zipper to his jacket and incised his initials on the round brass doornob - TAD. I don't think it's ever been noticed.

Empty Your Pockets - NOW!

When our kids were in High School, they were always hungry. We always had plenty of food in the cupboards, and left-overs in the fridge. Kids were up in the middle of the night eating - I'd have a whole sink full of dirty dishes even though the kitchen was clean when I went to bed. Seems like all George and I ever did was cook, bake, stirfry, barbeque, and grocery shop.

This is a story from my journal in 1994 :

Ruh had Saturday school this last week. Even in 9th grade, such disciplinary proceedures are necessary for kids who don't complete assignments on time. His teacher is Miss Marshall, she works for the police department, and she has a black belt in Karate. Ruh says she's pretty tough.

None of the kids came prepared for academics - no books, no paper or pens, just arrogance. They were goofing off, and one of the girl's bus-passes was thrown around. When Miss Marshall entered the classroom, the kids settled down, and someone pocketed the bus-pass. So, the girl asked Miss Marshall for help, and all the kids were told to empty their pockets.

The boy next to Ruh got the shakes because he had Bud and a pipe! Ruh whispered, " Just throw it in the wastebasket and pick it up later!" Everyone empitied their pockets, and an odd assortment of lighters, wallets, lipstick, and combs were placed on the teacher's desk.

Ruh had on his big winter coat, every pocket bulging, and Miss Marshall motioned to him to EMPTY your pockets NOW! Instead, he stood, faced the wall, spread his legs and placed his hands around the back of his head. "Oh, I can see you've done this before!" she said sarcastically as she made him turn around. "Now, EMPTY your POCKETS!

Ruh groaned, "Oh Maaaannnn..." An embarassed look of compliance crept across his face. When he was through rummaging through his coat, he'd pulled out a wallet, i.d., a Boys and Girl's Club card, a 5 lb. book (a horror story), 5 cassette tapes, pencils and paper to write poetry, and a container of raspberry yogurt, an apple and an entire 12 inch loaf of French Bread!

Just In Passing

Several of my favorite residents passed away this week, John, Neil, and Anna. As caregivers, we get to know their families, their histories, and most of their preferences. Neil was a lawyer and a Senator back in the 50's, he suddenly lost his sight, then had a massive stroke. John had so many health issues, fuming his life away, that he required oxygen. And, little Anna helped her twin sister raise her two boys, not having any of her own. Anna died today, she just simply broke her shoulder, and it couldn't be fixed. She was too fragile.

At one time or another, these residents tell me about their belief or non-belief in religion and God. Fortunately, my own upbringing as a Baha'i has helped put all their beliefs into perspective. I can validate whatever persuation they offer. I have a broad base of understanding why people choose the path they do. Sometimes it isn't the text of a holy book that determines their beliefs - it is the outcomes of all their life's experience, condensed into particular TRUTHS meaningful to them. I respect their journey, and their final destination.

Especially at the time of dying, a family member will wonder where their loved one GOES, and they will also feel guilt that they couldn't have been more loving.

The conversations vary as to outcome - whether one stops, gets saved by Jesus, or becomes reborn again and again. Always, I encourage the questions, and that is what is so poignant, that even on one's death bed a man can have a question. A family is left with the time to answer it.

Love Note From Ruhiyyih

Ruhiyyih left yesterday for China. She sent me an e-mail, one sentence stands out: When you are on the computer, remember to BLINK! Ohhhh, I miss my precious girl! She will be able to keep in touch here, but not post comments - it's a China thing...

Staff Meeting - Nursing

We had a staff meeting after work, which made it a long day. The Director of Nursing calls these meetings once a month. Everyone has to attend, no excuses. So many of the caregivers have to bring their children. They sit next to Mom, and try to be quiet, but after a half hour, many of them try to squirm, especially if they are young. They sat through emergency protocol for earthquakes, how to handle blood born pathogens, how to evacuate the facility in case of fire...and some kids slept through proceedures and codes for working with hospice at the time of death. They learned how to work with liguid morphene, and who is legally responsible for determining 'time of death'. They also heard staffs complaints about the food, and a few stretched their necks around to hear me say: "Well, we know the kitchen is serving us it's left-overs from last night and charging us a dollar for it! In nursing homes that food is considered garbage, and it is tossed. But here, they are charging staff a dollar for that garbage! We should refuse to eat it, and get vending machines instead!"

There was a lot of discussion about e-coli, undercooked hamburger, and open lesions on Lucille's leg. Kids can put up with only so much, and while we were discussing who would be available for night-shift, one little boy turned up the volume on his computer-toy, which played the most delightful tune. Pretty soon, I lost all interest in nightshift, and so did a few of the others.. Our boss had to time her cogent comments so that it would be heard over the boom-bah-bah. NOT ONCE did she look over in the boy's direction, and scowl. Or tell him to turn it down. That just tells you how great my boss is! Funny thing is, she seemed to enjoy letting the kids in on a secret - there is a place for everyone in the field of nursing!

How to Tell When You Are Over the Hill

Barney is 99 years old, and he is always laughing. Everything is amusing to Barney - every ache and pain, the food he has to eat, the names he forgets...he will laugh that he forgot his teeth just as he sat down to breakfast! He will laugh that he can't remember what day it is, or what time of year. All of it is funny, his eyes twinkle, and his grin opens into a great giggle that he just loves to savor. It's like Barney was born to get people laughing. So, he want's his list of "How to tell when you are over the hill" shared, just for you! Thanks, Barney...

~Everything hurts, and what doesn't hurt doesn't work!
~You need your glasses to find your glasses!
~Your back goes out more than you do!
~Your little black book contains only names that end in M.D.!
~Your children begin to look middle aged!
~The little grey haired person you help across the street is your spouse!
~You can't take 'yes' for an answer!
~The policemen look too young to be policemen!

Sudden Storm

Oh it was a hard workin' day! I'm going to sit out on my front porch, wrap up in a blanket and listen to the thunder and rain. It's very dramatic out there! Coffee is brewin'...

Oklahoma City Bombing

My Real Life Is The One I Imagine - from my journal, 1997:

"So, don't place any importance on the talk on the trayline. Alli adjusted her hairnet, and asked, "Well, Bonita, what's up for discussion tonite?" She was amused. I was exhausted and bored, and ready to get OPINIONATED!

She was putting on the beef stew, I was putting on the salad and dessert. We work a trayline in a nursing home that has 200 residents. We've been there almost 10 years, and we are as bored with each other as we are of the job. The kitchen is hot and steamy. We just want to get dinner served and get outa there!

How biscuits and stew, salad and dessert brought up Timothy McVeigh, we'll never remember, but we decide that the country wants to see him executed! Everyone nodds in agreement! But, I said that he should be tried for treason and hung. They say 11 counts will bring the same conclusion, and they gripe about the appeals process and that McVeigh has more breaths right now than he deserves.

Nancy, the night shift supervisor, brings up a local story about a drug raid and a cop that got killed. That led to the story about two drive-by shootings over on 15th street, just kids out shooting, some as young as 11, 12, and 13 years old.

I added that so many of these boys just need a good predatory experience that will scare the Hell out of them. I imagined planeloads of them being parachuted out over the Brooks Range in Alaska. Dumped off. With a bow and arrows, a knife and hatchet, and some flint. They'd get all the 'predatory' squeezed out of them fast by just stalking rabbits ... and, it would not be at the taxpayer's expense. They could etch their flamboyant grafitti in the sandbars along the Yukon River, and watch the rain cover it over. Freeze-up would be an educational experience.

The ladies of the trayline brought up other subjects to heighten the agitation -- two battered kids over at Mary Bridge Hospital, a newborn left in a dumpster, and HOW CRAZY the world has become! We've spent millions of dollars innoculating our little ones so they won't die of polio, diptheria, and smallpox, but, there's no innoculation against the inhumanity of our culture!

The ladies just kept serving up biscuits and gravy, salad and dessert. We did up the pots and pans, put leftovers away, mopped the floor, and clocked out. I rode my bike home, and Taraz greeted me at the front door. "Mom! I wanna show you something! Come upstairs to my room!" We climbed out onto the windowsill, and looked down at the garden. It was dusk, and all the flowers were laced with a fringe of sunset.

He took out a small bottle of bubbles, blew through the wand, and a stream of irridescent bubbles floated over the garden. They glistened, then popped with a sparkle. . . disarming me completely.

Those Nasty Crows

Crows walk around solid
like they own the place.
You want to feel like that?
Watch the crow.

Those splayed heavy feet
that hold weight and flight
could be ready to trample down
anything that said
they didn't belong here.

So don't you worry
about loosing your home,
the crows are out back
calling all around you.

Every morning they do this.
They don't care if you notice.
There's a reason they are here!

James Galvins "Meadow"

It took all of three generations of James Galvins family to use up the Meadow:

"Nowadays the meadow isn't considered worth haying. Machinery is cost-prohibitive in relation to annual yield. No one will winter here anymore. We are a different breed of Westerners. Snow always looks good to skiers.

Someone from Denver bought Lyle's place for the fishing, a summer retreat. Without irrigation much of the meadow has regressed to native sidehill pasture and sage. The rest is frumpy-looking, matted under the yellow thatch of last year's uncut growth. Along the east fence, where Pat and Lyle used to bet on whether or not the snowdrift would last till the Fourth of July, short lengths of snowbroken wire sink into the earth, sink down with the roots.

Underneath its feral pelt, the meadow is still the meadow, entire, lying in wait for winter. Wildflowers still joy in its swells and hollows. And do the ruined, sage-choked irrigation ditches feel sorry for their intricately patterned uselessness?"

In The Everyday

"In the rush and whirl of daytime chores of
putting away, folding, straightening
ordering, cleaning, preparing,
A moment catches you, says
Here is today's treasure ~
stop for awhile."

We're going to go have breakfast with our daughter, then I will spend the day with her. She is my treasure, every moment of her.

Absorbing the Pain of Others

A doctor near Thule, Greenland, in the Artic, was on his route, by dogsled, to the remote villages in his region. He was overcome by a vicious storm - wind, snow, and severe temperatures that left him stranded. He struggled to drive his sled further, to the next village, but he became lost. His life became endangered. Only hours away from death, he noticed a mound in the Artic wasteland before him. He moved slowly toward it, and found it was a dwelling. A family crawled out of the small doorway, and invited him inside. He was so weary that he could not walk or speak, so they pulled him inside. A man removed the doctor's fur boots and found frostbite, a condition that required very specialized care. So, with a motion of his hand, the Eskimo motioned his wife to sit down, and open her parka. Then, the Eskimo placed the doctor's feet into the folds of flesh of her abdomen and thighs. She massaged his legs to bring back the circulation. He survived, and later told in his book, "Eskimo Doctor", that it was the most sensuously gratifying moment of his life.

Life Moves On

When my grand-daughter was just a couple of years old, I decided to build her a playhouse. A man down the street was a carpenter, and he gave me all the scrap wood I needed. It took about a month to build, because I worked on it just a little every day. My neighbor, Paula, who is 90, scolded me about the noise, and said it looked like an outhouse! When she saw that I was serious about the project, she asked me what color it was going to be, and I said, "Oh, just that weather-beaten color, whatever the sun will give it."

I built cupboards, shelves, and an upper bunk, where my grand-daughter, Daisy, could rest with teddybears. There was a little study nook, with specimen jars filled with seeds from the garden, dried elk droppings from the mountains, and even bugs. It became a nature center, and I believe I loved being in there more than she did! I filled the shelves with old nature books, a tea set, and a candy jar. A few antiques went into the corner - an old miner's lantern hung overhead. And, I hooked up a single nightlight in the front window, to welcome any little stranger, and it has shined day and night for 6 years. The front door and windows are small, covered with screen, and only little people can get through the door.

Well, Daisy and I had lots of tea parties, and told stories at bedtime there. When my parents passed on, that was the place where I sat with my sadness. Over the years, Daisy and I had so much fun with the little cabin, that I decided I'd get some rabbits, and a couple laying hens. I built a hutch and a chicken coop. Pretty soon, it felt like I had a farm! My entire backyard, in the city felt like heaven! I taught Daisy to feed the chickens and the rabbits.

I should have stopped there. My neighbor, Paula, got tired of the sounds of hammers and children. And, when I added two little pigmy goats (wethers), and a little coral, it became too much for her. Although she couldn't see any animals, or hear them, just knowing they were there was an annoyance for her, and she notified the Health Department. They sent a letter, and I had to remove all my animals.

I never cried about anything as much as I did that, and I gave all my animals away, in one day. Daisy couldn't understand why the little hens were gone, why the rabbits were gone. And, we missed the antics of Buck and Buddy, the goats. Suddenly, the farm felt lifeless, empty.

I've mulled over the losses of that time, and I think, the greatest loss was not being able to continue sharing this part of myself with Daisy. How many children grow up, and never know what it is like to go fetch a blue or a brown egg for breakfast, or to feel the softest velveteen rabbit.

Last fall, we tore down the rabbit hutch and the chicken run, and planted more garden. The mice and squirrels found Daisy's teddy, a nest of possumns live under the floorboards, and the tea set is scattered on the table, topsy-turvey. Life moved on...

A Grandfather's Legacy

Tomorrow we plan to have friends and family gather for a going-away party for our daughter, Ruhiyyih. She was a teacher in China for a year, teaching English, and now she will train the teachers. George's Dad studied China most of his life, and had a pen-pal for many years there before it opened to the West. Most of the walls of his study were covered with books, and when he was in his 70's, he went to China for the first time. When he passed away, his collection was sold, and his love for China was passed on to all his grandchildren. Both of my daughters have traveled there, and, the key to my front door has been placed under a rock in a beautiful forest there...off the trail, high up in the mountains. Ruhiyyih says she will take me there one day...

Getaway in the Ole Dodge

We packed our gear in the back of George's 91' Caravan and headed out about 7:00 a.m. - in rush hour traffic up to Seattle. Most of the traffic headed north seemed to be trucks - Costco, Pella Windows, Aramark Uniform Services, Comcast, Alaska Marine Lines, Airport Shuttles, Ambulance and taxi's, and various electrical and plumbing companies.

When traffic bogged down, George got out his cell phone and rearranged some appointments with clients, cause, well, we were up to some mischief - we were gunna play some hookey...God, who wants to listen to other people's problems all day, when it looks so gorgeous out! The air was so fresh, the sun promising, temp in the 70's.

Well, the fun thing about George's car, his only car, is that over the years he has personalized it with about every kind of fishing decal they make - trout, bass - and George doesn't fish. The whole backend is herons and pelicans, the sides are cattails, hummingbirds, mallards, and more fish. The sliding door has a big canoe on it. The hood has foot prints, of grizzlies and ducks, crossing, so it's all confusing. The gas-cap has a cormorant on it....So, when traffic stalls on the freeway, people looking at the ole Dodge Caravan know we're heading out for some fun, and, they'll wave.

George has trouble getting rid of this ole car! He has had to refit the doors, patch the seat-covers, and had the engine rebuilt last fall. He's put $7,000.00 into overhaul and repairs, just to keep this piece of junk. I'd like to see him replace the windshield - heck, clean the windows - but George likes his van just the way it is, dents and all.

Everyone at the office - a mental health agency - knows George's car, and they get a charge when he parks it right next to the Psychiatrists Jaguar!

We had a great trip, did some fantastic canoeing and, unfortunately, had to portage a mile when a sudden storm came up. Boy were we tuckered out when we got home! All the camping gear is still trashed in front of the fireplace, and the canoe is still strapped on top of the ole Dodge Caravan!

Growing Pains

Remembering my daughter - 1996

Remember, you were the one
who wore those battered shoes
all ragged, grey and lopsided
for two years
expecting them to hold up
to warranty.

And you got your money back
when you turned them in, defective.
Clerk shudda said: You wore um,
they're yours! Walk differently!

Remember, you sprawled fine
on that futon, for weeks,
not just testing, but resting.

And, you got your money back.
No new-fangled gadget will
rip you off.

Clerk shudda said, You bought your bed,
now lay in it!

Don't leave it to me to talk you
into contentment, with the wearing away
of self and desire...You'd turn me in for good, too!
Just look at the pattern....

Ecstasy - by Hayden Carruth

For years it was in sex and I thought
this was the most of it
so brief
a moment
or two of transport out of oneself
or
in music which lasted longer and filled me
with the exquisite wrenching agony
of the blues
And now it is equally transitory
and obscure as I sit in my broken chair
that the cats have shredded
by the stove on a winter night
with wind and snow howling outside
And I imagine the whole world at peace
at peace
And everyone comfortable and warm
The great pain assuaged
a moment
of the most shining and singular sensual gratification.

Camping in the San Juan Islands

Have a campsite reserved on a mountain lake up in the San Juan Islands. Canoeing at it's best! Will return home in a few days.

Winter In the Blood

My favorite book about Montana was Winter In The Blood, by James Welch, in which the author describes how withered the soul can become when a type of spiritual diaspora overtakes an Indian town. The town is Browning, on the Blackfoot Reservation.

It takes courage to write so beautifully, so poignantly. You see, when a culture is broken down, abruptly, as the Blackfoot were, a type of fragmentation sets in, and nothing makes sense anymore. There is no congruence, no moving forward. It becomes difficult to reconstruct old patterns of living in a new format.

I read this book for the first time when I moved to Washington from Montana. I, too, felt this type of displacement stress. It was so acute, that I felt I could not breathe among the trees here, when I was used to vast open spaces. The pace of life was different here in the city. I was used to defining my year in terms of plantings and harvestings, and the women in the neighborhood weren't interested in the literature of the West, they watched soap operas. Of course, I was to blame...I've always felt I should have been born a hundred years ago! I planted vegetables in a Community Garden Plot furnished by the Metropolitan Park District, and I did my best to adapt.

It was when we started canoeing Puget Sound that open water provided what the prairie did. Paddle Routes and Hiking Trails on Mount Rainier replaced the literature of the West. The beauty of water helped me to glide forward. I'm aware it is not that easy for the Blackfoot.

Big Sky Country

There was a lot that my father never told us kids about survival, in Montana. He was a quiet man, refused to dwell on negatives, so we had to wait for decades to hear how tough it really was, for his Dad. I never knew my dad's father, but Daddy said that he was raised in Missouri, and he was an expert at innovative farming proceedures. He taught Agriculture, and when he was newly married, he and my grandmother, Enola, signed up for a homestead in Montana.

If you lived on the land for 10 years, homesteaded it and planted crops, the land was yours, free. The railroad advertised how great the Wild West was, and J. J. Hill and Buffalo Bill Cody were responsible for instilling lots of hopes and dreams, with the hope that people would go out west using the railroad. Posters were put up, saying how great it was - waves of shining grain, lots of rain...and people bought the dream, and came in droves, just like a herd of cattle. Eastern Montana was sparcely inhabited at the time my grandfather arrived, because most of the good land was in central and western Montana.

My grandparents built a home, and outbuildings, and had 5 children. The work was endless, and my dad had to walk to school 2 miles every day, plus do chores. When the drought set in, a lot of homesteaders left, but my grandfather left the farm to my grandmother, and went into the little town of Dodson. He worked at the post office. It was lonely out on the farm, and it was a hardship for the marriage, to have two people living far apart for years on end, just to make ends meet. Ultimately, when the government sent the seed money, my grandfather took half and scattered to Texas. The bank forclosed on the farm, the homestead was lost.

My father just never talked how bad it really was, growing up. We saw him doing well in Great Falls, and, boy was he a hard worker. He could fix anything, and everyone was Friend. He ran an auto parts business, and when an old farmer would call the house at 2:00 a. m., wanting a $2.00 part for his truck, my father would get out of bed and unlock the store. My dad knew running a truck was important to a farmer. And, he had a very good reputation in the community.

The hardships of farming and ranching in Montana are in a lot of local narratives, in the library. My favorite book about sheep ranching there is by Ivan Doig, called This House of Sky. In it, you will see why young Ivan high-tailed out of Montana as soon as he could. It is beautiful country, but more than the wind can blow you away.

Beaver Dam on the Coffee Table

My son, Taraz, is in his early 20's, and hasn't a clue about what to do with the rest of his life. He's held some good jobs, starting at age 12, with a paper route, then doing parcels at Fred Meyer. He spent a year in Illinois, after getting training in digital media. He went to South Carolina after that, and worked in a radio station in a little town called Hemingway. While he was there, he went canoeing in a little lake, with an island in the center of it. He loved the solitude, after talking all day.

There were beaver in this lake, friendly beaver, who found all the sticks Taraz broke along the water. The beaver stripped all the bark off them, then left them at the water's edge. Taraz would find the sticks on a subsequent paddle, all polished, and it was as if they were GIFTS. And, he took them home, and carved notches in them. Added small carvings.

When it was time to return to Washington, he packed all 75 power sticks in his luggage, and not much of anything else! And, guess where they are now displayed!

Fish Guts

Our neighbor, Richard, brought over some trout. He always has extra, and I'm the dope that gets them. Everyone else in the neighborhood slams their doors in his face. I wonder why...

I'd been mowing my yard when he came down the walk, and wouldn't you know it, he had a mess of fish, wrapped in newspaper. We walked into the kitchen, and he unwrapped them, telling me to get a knife, he'd gut them for me. We talked about his favorite fishing spots, and about all the fish he's donated to the neighborhood. Seems like his wife is the last person who wants his fish, cooked or otherwise!

Well, he cleaned out those suckers, uh, TROUT, and left me 3 nice ones, Rainbow... but, do you know, when I went to clean up the mess, there were guts and heads for 6 trout! He'd left the whole mess for me, so his wife wouldn't have to deal with it! And, he had the audacity to ask me if I'd help him move his boat!

I just flashed a sweet Mona Lisa Smile, and imagined banging him with a salmon net, tying his hands together in fishing line, and sinking him in his own boat!

Rocks In Her Head

He sat down next to me. So, I rattled on....

"What would constitute living?" I asked.
"Walking and moving around," my son answered.
"Movement? But, plants are alive, and they stay put. They have the power of growth, not movement." I asked.

"OK, Mom, How is the rock alive?

"Well, it feels alive to me because it has been created, it exists, it has a PURPOSE for being. But also, because its elemental structure is active! All those protons, nutrons, electrons are all buzzing around with activity that holds it together - like our circulation. We just can't see that activity going on, so we assume rocks are head. But, even water can wear them down, smoothe out their rough edges."

Well, that was enough for him, he went to go get pizza with his friends at Round Table, and muttered outloud, "Mom's got rocks in her head! Hey, you guys wait up..."

Vanishing - 12 - 30 - 91

That last summer in the Valley, I deliberately soaked up sun.
I became browner than I had ever been.
I wanted to burn myself dark black and ashen,
like an old burned out log struck by lightening.

Getting deep brown would be the closest I'd ever get
to being what was in my head about the Eastern front,
and those distinctly human inhabitants that
dug for roots, chipped stones for tools,
and gathered Kinninnick for a pipe.

Every few days I went back there, saying
it was the children who needed to play
at the edge of the water, to rush upwards
along the Alpine trail. There, we'd meet goats
who left fur on branches, they scattered, too.

So, I gave those excuses, wishing for just one more day.
I didn't want to move away, I wanted to vanish.

Black Eyed Peas and Cheryl Crow

We made a day-trip over Snoqualmie Pass to the Columbia Wildlife Refuge. We did some canoeing in the Columbia Wildlife Refuge, a beautiful place with water-filled potholes carved out by glaciers thousands of years ago. The water is pristine, the air sweetened with sage, and the canoeing is great - if, you don't have wind. And, we did.

George always convinces me that things will calm down, so lets load up, and, like a typical optimist when it comes to things 'canoeing', I went along for the ride. Well, the first mile or so it was smooth sailing, so to speak. I had my video camera going, and I got great images of all the mud-swallow nests up in the farther reaches of the cliffs. I video tape all our glides, rather than paddle, because my rotator cuffs are pretty shot due to so much paddling over the years. So, George 'power paddles' for the both of us. It works great until you hit wild waves and gusty wind. Thats what happened, and we were almost blown across the lake. Not fun.

We got back to the car, and decided just to explore. Eastern Washington is dramatic, with the Columbia River Gorge, the open vistas. We put on some music, or I should say, George does, and it is always a battle to get our tastes to 'match' comfort zones. Now, George is a disc jockey in his spare time, when he's not playing Therapist, and he goes by the name DJ George. But, his music can send me up the wall when he starts out with Doris Day or the Four Lads singing about 'Standing on the Corner'. He'll update to Earth Wind and Fire, Patti SaBelle, and Van Morrison (Hymn to the Silence, love it). Then over to Billy Swans, 'I Can Help', the O Jay's 'Love Train, and the Isley Brothers 'That Lady'.

We'll play an entire album of Fleetwood Mac while I'm filming combining operations along the road, dust swirling behind those big machines. Looks like the second cut for farming alfalfa. An album by Cheryl Crow is next, although I tell George 'All I Wanna Do' is switch over to 'Where is the Love' by Black Eyed Peas - they really describe the plight of the world today.

Exploring back roads always gets you to a secluded spot you can call your own, lay out a blanket, soak up a little sun. We did, then we opened up the door to the van and danced in the sagebrush! Percy Faith's 'Theme for a Summer Place, Andy Williams 'Moon River, and a song called 'Blue Velvet , can't beat those for making you appreciate dancin' on a summer day. Reminds me of Fleetwood Mac's 'BIG LOVE', and, it is!

Going the Extra Mile

Frequently, at work, I train the new girls to become caregivers. I've done this kind of work a long time now, and I enjoy seeing the enthusiasm of a new hire. Some, of course, don't have that attitude, and I can almost always determine how long they will last before they quit, or get fired. The job requires a lot of energy and movement, agility, if you are production-oriented, like I am. It pays to be trim and petitte, too, because that helps you get around better. You've probably seen heavy caregivers, they are devoted and loving, but they huff and puff getting the work done. And, they tend to get injured more easily because their body mechanics aren't adequate.

Well, a new woman was hired this last week, named Jan. She is in her 30's, never married, and had a daughter when she was 17. She quit school to go into the Job Corp. There, they taught her how to hold down a job, and she got her GED while taking care of her baby. She's had lots of jobs, mostly clerical, but what she really wanted to do was be a caregiver. So, here she is.

We did two days training together, and I can tell you, she did great, really pitched in, eager to learn the ropes. She smiled a lot, got to know names, and enjoyed the banter at lunchtime in the breakroom. She said those two days training were so much fun! And, they were for me too! It was so refreshing to see her energy!

Just as we were getting ready to clock out, she said she was looking forward to doing the swing shift, that clocking in at 4:00 will be a whole lot easier than clocking in at 6:00 a. m. I asked her where her car was, and she said she rides the bus. "Oh," I said, "were they operating for your early shifts here?" She laughed and said, "No, I had to walk to work, the busses aren't running that early."

Well, I knew it was dark out when we get to work, and the city isn't the greatest place for an early morning stroll, so I asked her how long it takes. She just shrugged her shoulders and said, "Oh, two and a half hours..."

Standing Up to the Bullies

My son, Ruh, is very assertive, tough, and no one messes with him. He was hard for me to raise because he never accepted 'no' for an answer. Big guys would team up against him in high school, to beat him up, and he never flinched! He got a reputation: Bring it on!

Well, I was just his little ole mom, and I've never had a clue as to how to defend myself. I'm witless...But, here is a story that happened to me while waiting for the bus - 7 - 10 - 19:

"All those times, those moments, when Ruhullah honed his feisty air and combative stance never paid off for me until today.

I walked to the bus stop and sat down on the curb. Next to me were two youth, boys aabout 14. They were in a playful, sassy mood, yelling at the cars going by. Throwing rocks, screaming obscenities.

As is my custom, I just ignored them, and continued thinking about the sky, the weather, the beauty of the old grey house across the street. I usually fill my head this way. But, occasionally, the rocks these boys were throwing started bouncing off my shoes, and rolling in the gutter.

I thought, 'I can handle this'. I ignored them.

Pretty soon, I heard, 'Bozo the Clown! Her hair looks like Bozo! And, look at her big shoes!' I chuckled, because they were right; my mens-size tennis shoes look huge because of foot problems I have, and, my hair had frizzed up in the humid morning air.

They kept looking my way, I guess they wanted some kind of reaction...I really didn't know what to do, so I turned around and faced them, full front, while I was still sitting on the curb there. I guess they wondered what I was going to do. But, I just looked calmly, quietly, at them, like an executioner waiting for the prisoner's eyes to become blindfolded.

The older of the two boys then stiffened a little. He studied my face for a moment, hesitated, then asked, 'Are you Ruh's mom?'

I stood up, faced him squarely, didn't blink an eye and said, 'Yes. And I'm just like him!'

They never bothered me after that, and they let me get on the bus first!

The World According to Mister Rogers

Often when you think you're at the end of something, you're at the beginning of something else. I've felt that many times. My hope for all of us is that 'the miles we go before we sleep' will be filled with all the feelings that come from deep caring -- delight, sadness, joy, wisdom -- and that in all the endings of our life, we will be able to see the new beginnings.

Notes from the Attic - 4 - 9 - 92

There is a column of books stacked neatly between the bookcases. They are George's readings for next quarter. I keep looking at that column, about two and a half feet tall:
Global Mind Change - Willis, Harmon
Inevitable Grace - Ferrucci
The Invented Reality - Watzlawick
Alfred North Whitehead - Lowe
Sri Ramakrishna - Shiffman
Goals for Mankind - Ervin Laszlo
The Seat of the Soul - Zukav
The Rebirth of Nature - Sheldrak
The Prescence of the Past - Sheldrake
A New Science of Life - Sheldrake
The Ages of Gaia - Lovelock
The Search for the Beloved - Houston
Marital Choices - Lederer
The Seven Mysteries of Life - Murchi
Living Systems - Miller

I just shake my head and wonder if George will ever earn a living. If given a choice, I know he'd prefer to be a closet scholar, getting high on concepts and ideas. He'd have his cronies, all dysfunctional, with masters' degrees. But, OH!, how they'd sit around and talk, turn things inside out, put it back together again and get it to work.

We've just barely scrapped together enough money to pay the rent.

Laurel will be here in a month, to find us as poor as always, scrimping on laundry soap, eating too much cold cereal and potatoes, wondering how to finance the next pair of shoes. Ruhiyyih needs glasses. There's payment for Tarazullah's school photos. George washed his winter jacket and it shrunk. Ruhullah wants a cat, and Rahmat wants a two wheeler bike!

Same ole struggle. More needs than I know what to do with, worring where will the money come from...and there across the livingroom is the enemy! A stack of books two feet tall! He says they'll help him get somewhere, it's his coursework. And I know damned well its his stash, like a drunk's bottle in the hall closet behind the golf clubs!

It could be worse...Gracie's husband collected newspaper INSERTS...colorful sale items from Target or K-Mart. Bargan flyers about automobile tires, lube jobs. Jewelry sales at Zales. He even collected coupons for food items he'd never buy, like Orville Reddenbaackers popcorn! (They both wear false teeth!) He stashed piles of these junk inserts behind the TV, where Gracie wouldn't see them...they were a resourse, a comfort, something to study when TV wasn't good.

Gracie wasn't a TV person. When he died in August and she moved his ole TV out, and gave it to his mother, she saw this tidy wad of newspaper inserts neatly stacked...May, June, July, and the first few weeks of August. They'd been married only four monthes.

The World According to Mr. Rogers

"There's never been a time in our history when there have been so many changes, so many unusual things to deal with for which we have no experience. It's as if our whole society were walking along a road through a wilderness of constant change with strangers we think we should know, but don't quite understand."

~Fred Rogers

Quote for the Day

"Beauty triumphs over the suffering inherent in life."
~Nietzsche

A Smorgasbord Kind of Gal

Josephine is one of my residents. We all call her Dottie Dee, for short. She is in her 90's, but still likes to wear petal pushers, a push-up bra, and anklets with her sandals. Her grey hair is tinted neon orange. She has a long brown sweater that she puts around her shoulders when she pedals around the facility. It always gets caught in the spokes of her wheelchair, and is mostly a bunch of strings at the bottom. Doesn't matter. She wears that sweater, regardless. Every day. Been 3 years now.

Dottie Dee likes continuity. You know, gotta keep everything in her room in the same place, no changes. And plants like poincettas, at Christmas, stay exactly in place, dead, until June. That the leaves have curled and dropped, and no buds appear promising, doesn't bother Dottie Dee. That plant will stay there as a reminder.

Now you'd think that the monotony of that lifestyle would agitate her a little. But, no, not even at mealtime will she stretch her interests - every breakfast is tea and toast, every lunch is a salad with bits of cheese and turkey. Nothing else. You'd wonder, Dottie Dee, there is a smorgasboard out there! A little tuna, macaroni and cheese, a world of desserts! But no, every day it is the same.

Well, I've been thinking about Dottie Dee today when I was trying to figure out how to share the concept of who I am, when it comes to politics and religion - two of the most difficult subjects to write about. I'm a smorgasbord kind of gal, open to a lot of diverse expressions. Because I spent so many years raising kids, I lost track of politics, and found spiritual expression most meaningful in nature. Oh, I could read lots of books, but reverance for the struggle of everyday life, for everyone, became my prominent interest.

Currently, I'm grateful for courageous people, who post their strong beliefs on the internet. I benefit from the walk they walk, different though it may be from mine. You see, they help me in ways I never imagined. They open up the vista.

Diddlebopps and Heinies

Well, it was a bit challenging at work today. Had to bathe two men who have given excuses to all the caregivers for a month now about how they really don't need a shower. You see, when you get old, your olfactory nerves deteriorate, and you just become comfortable with your own odor. Some rooms, the odor is in the curtains, the bedding, the rugs, and and in the air. It's when it gets like that, that management calls on me. Others just aren't going to bother to tackle it. They'll give an excuse, they'll approach the old man only once, and hope he says "no", cause, really, they don't want to go home smelling like John or Malcolm.

Now, don't get me wrong. Women can smell as bad as men, twat and all. But they are a whole lot easier to handle then the men. A little powder, some White Diamonds by ole' Liz Taylor, and some Eucerin dry skin therapy applied all over will generally put them in a receptive mood, and you're good to go. Pull up a nice undergarment, pick out their tight hairdoos, and everyone is a happy camper! They'll look for you again in a couple days.

But! The men! It's like they are being seduced for the first time, in the back seat of the Chevy, or, oops, the ole' Edsel. What ever they had experienced way back then all of a sudden appears again, and they are holding their pants closed, belt in a death grip. Language stalls, with "No, uh, no, NO!" I get all kinds of commentary, from, "get the HELL out of here" to "I'm gunna tell your supervisor and you'll be looking for a job tomorrow!"

Surely you must know, being appointed by the higher ups to do this deed, I don't pay attention to anything Malcolm or John say. I just proceed to get them naked, as quickly as humanly possible before I'm thrown out of the bathroom. And, of course, what do they do? They cover their crotch with both hands and back their heinie into the back of the wall. This is not something you want a 90 year old man to do, unless you want to waste time filling out an incident report...(reason for fall: modesty). Why men need to cover up their diddlebopps and mash their heinies into a wall is beyond me. But, they'll do it every time.

I make sure to be sweet, defferential even, once they are getting bathed, and it goes a lot easier once the warm water relaxes them a little. We make it a cooperative thing: I do the back, they do the front, and I remain very quiet and dutiful. You see, it may remind them of better times, when their mother or wife scrubbed them, and maybe they are recently widowed. So, I don't intrude with this moment. They feel cared for. Never fails, too, when I'm towel-drying them, and I put on some Aspercreme and Deoderant, they steal furtive glances my way, as if seeing me for the first time. They'll say "Thanks", and I'll make light of it, wiping the sweat off my brow as I head out the door.

Thought for the Day

"If we want to change the world, we have to begin by changing ourselves."

~ Deepak Chopra

Shift Work

Well, I only had this one day off, back to work tomorrow. I worked 3 days, have 1 off, and now I'll work 4 more. Then, I'll get the weekend off. Shift work. Leaves you pretty tired. I set 2 alarm clocks, one is a quiet chime with a snooze button, and if I fail to answer to that one, the big electric clock buzzes. Usually, I can wake up without either, primarily because I don't want to hear either one of them!

I wake up about 3:30 a.m. , but get up an hour later, make coffee, and read for awhile. I clock in at 6:00 a.m. All the girls are there - Peggy, Julia, April - we are caregivers in Assisted Living. We bathe, dress and groom the residents, straighten their apartments, and tend to their needs throughout the day. They need help keeping clean, keeping oriented to their day, and getting around. It's our job to keep their spirits up. We talk 'dementia' and care plans, meds, deterioration and death. Loosing people we've cared about is routine, they either die or move out.

It's not an easy job, takes a toll on the body. Just about everyone in this field works with injuries. Imagine, trying to lift a 150 lb. man while you are treating your tendonitis! He wants you to pull him up, all 150 lbs. Your job is to teach him how to do it himself, and provide minimal assistance.

By day's end, a caregiver aches all over, if they are my age. Trick is, don't let management know you are worn out. Walk in there, ready to greet the day. When you get home, sit for awhile, have a cup of coffee, and get your second wind. If you are like me, it is awlful hard to get up again...I'm pretty brain dead by 4:00 p.m. Can you tell?

It's In The Eyes

I suppose I should describe myself: If you were in a room filled with 3 women, you would look at me LAST. If my identical twin, Bonnie, was there, you'd look at HER. Need I say more?

I was a scrawny little kid, with wild kinky hair. I was quiet, a little introspective, and when kids would come over to play, they'd pick Bonnie first. That probably was O.K., because I spent most of my free time reading, exploring the countryside, or drawing. So, I managed to thrive on my past-times, and not take relationships too seriously. When the time came to be married, I did, twice. I asked George, my husband, what he found attractive in me, and he said, "You kinda have EYES".

Well, that did make my eyes crinkle a bit, water too...he has said, to this day, that KIND EYES was what he was after. I was sure glad he could overlook the rest - a mutt mixture of Native American, Welsh, German, and a smidgeon of Negroid.

My eyes have taken a beating, with cataracts and retinal tears. They aren't what they used to be. As we get older, we loose so much. "Kinda have eyes" I want to keep, forever!

What Was That Again?

My kids were the scourge of the neighborhood. While my oldest was in college getting a degree in Psychology, the younger ones were running around pretty unsupervised. I was a dead-beat Mom, too tired to sweat the small stuff. I let a lot of stuff slide. I remember thinking that one of my sons was the kind of kid that I wouldn't let MY kids play with.

So, it was not unusual for name-calling to escalate around our place. It would start innocently enough, with, "You're an idiot, go away", then if he didn't, it would escalate to, "MOM, would you get this PERVERT away from me!" If that didn't work, my daughter would scream, "ANNIE<>VERN<>FUZZ-U-WUZZ<>SHIRLEY<>MARGARET!!" , and he would run away. He was the sweetest, most cherubic, little red-head. And, those little curls didn't help!

But, the real scourge of names came when our kids had to spell them. In first grade. Our oldest had an American name, Laurel. Easy there. But the last four kids had Arabic names, with specific attributes implied: Ruh'u'llah, Ruhiyyih, Taraz'u'llah, Rahmat'u'llah. And, the names meant, Spirit of God, the pure of God, Ornament of God, and the Mercy of God. All these kids grew into their names, as if the names outlined a way of being. They were never teased in class or in the neighborhood, but parents looked at me a little askew!

And, I only had difficulty once, when the doctor asked how to spell my daughter's name, Ruhiyyih, and, darn if I knew! I told him at her 6 week check-up, that I'd have go go home and look it up. Give him a call back.

Well, name-calling has been part of the family ever since. We've learned to roll with it. I got lots of practice rolling to "Flitzy Phoebie".

Totem Lodge - Monarch

When I was in the 5th grade, around 1955, my mother purchased a cabin in the Neihart Mountains in central Montana. She paid $3,000 for it, furnished. We spent every summer there for about five years, swimming, fishing, building dams in the creek, hiking and exploring the mountains, horse-back riding. My father would stay in town to work, and mother would sit in a rocking chair on the front porch, and take it easy. There was no phone, no TV, and, in those mountains, only an ole static racket on the radio. It went off the air at 9:00, and then there was just the sound of the creek out front. The scarriest thing about a cabin out in the country is the sense of solitude at night. Absolutely pitch black, except for the stars. Some nights we'd hear a mountain lion screaming and it would cause the hair on our dog's back to point straight up! He could smell a mountain lion or a bear, and if it came close, he would start to tremble. And you know how hard it must have been to use the outhouse at night! One night, I saw a bobcat run up a log, just a few feet from me. That's when we put a chamber pot in the kitchen at night.

Well, those days are long gone. The only discomfort I have at night now is listening to my husband snore. And, of course, there is the issue of putting the toilet seat down.

Liver Pizza and Bugs on a Log

Yup. That's what the kids got after school. I knew they'd be hungry, and we were the generation that wised up to the importance of good nutrition. We knew that if children's bodies didn't get nutrients, they'd be hungry again, in an hour! Try feeding natchos and a coke for a week, then try liver pizza and 'bugs on a log'. You'll see a difference!

Just start with a plain pizza crust, top it with tomato paste, and add FINELY chopped parsley, tomatoes, onion and peppers. Cook your liver the day before, so the smell is gone, then FINELY chop your liver, sprinkling it all around. Shredded carrots are mixed in with the cheese, and sprinkle that on top. Bake 15 -20 minutes. The kids will wonder what the black stuff is, be cool, just say, "chopped olives". They'll never be able to pick anything out, cause it is too mixed up.

Bugs on a log are fun for kids - celery, peanut butter, and raisens on top. Keeps them busy putting it together. Your kids will tease you about this meal, but don't you worry, they'll be reminising about it over a campfire one day when they are preparing a meal for you! Mine just did, as we celebrated Memorial Day weekend together.

Fairy Tales

When I was a child, there were three fairy tales that terrified me - Old Mother Hubbard, The Little Match Girl, and The Grasshopper and the Ants. Why I didn't pay attention to Rapunzel, I don't understand, because my dominant feature is long, curly hair (now salt and pepper), tied in back with a little scarf. But, that is digressing. That I did manage to acquire a handsome Prince, has made my fairy tale come true. Let me explain.

The little match girl was about a child that was abandoned in winter, homeless. She wandered the streets of a city trying to sell matches to earn her bread. In the course of time, as the streets darkened, and shoppers went home, she was still there out in the cold, alone. This story was so painful to me, as a child, that when I told it to my own daughter, Laurel, I rewrote the ending. I told my daughter that the little girl lighted all the matches to keep warm. It created a great light, attracting an old woman carrying packages to her doorway. The old woman brought the little girl inside her home, fed her soup, and put her to bed. The next morning the woman made a deal with the girl - "I'll take care of you, if you will take care of me when I am old".

Old Mother Hubbard was about a woman who had so many children, that she didn't know what to do. The illustration showed a woman all frazzled, holding a broom, booting kids out of the upstairs windows in the shoe. Kids were poping out all over, clearly little hellions. I thought that would be a miserable fate for a decent woman! She never had a peaceful moment.

And, Grasshopper and the Ants told the story of Ants that were hard working, planning for the long, hard winter, and an ole' grasshopper that sang his life away, playing his fiddle, careless of the needs of the day. Well, they found each other, the grasshopper and the ants, and they formed a partnership. He would liven up their lives with music and dance, and the ants would run the show, keep things running, so everyone would survive. As a child, I felt it was unfair that the grasshopper got off so easy. He shudda been working!

Well, I put these tales aside and grew up, and do you know, EVERY ONE of them happened to me! I married a man who, though he works, he rocks the house with music and dance, frolic and fun...never cleaning out the garage, washing the car, hanging up his clothes, mowing the grass! And, I became the little ant, putting things in order, planning ahead for our future, making my lists of 'things to do'! We became the Grasshopper and the Ant!

So my life ultimately patterned itself after the worst fairytales of my childhood...

I married the grasshopper, we dance and grumble. I became a caregiver to the elderly as my profession, which has brought me the best that life could give, and I became Old Mother Hubbard, with so many children she didn't know what to do!

What are the stories that you live by?

Living UP to your name

When I was growing up, my brother and sister would tease me with the name, FLITZY PHOEBIE. It was meant to define their contempt and exasperation with the way my mind worked (or didn't, according to them). Most of the time we got along very well, but when tempers got riled, this was the moniker I got. My brother and sister don't call me that any more, but I will try to recapture the intensity of that period of my life, if I can here, and you will see how, in the end, I lived up to my name, Flitzy Phoebie!

Scattered, and marching to a different tune, I lived up to my name...

The News, Dementia Style

I work with people suffering with dementia. They like the NEWS just like you, problem is, they forget and can't make sense of it. After all these years of accommodating my manner to their thinking, I've begun to read a paper the way they think...in bits and pieces:

ECOLOGICAL ASSETS flood protection, biodiversity, aesthetic value, restoration, water filtration, impervious pavement, expensive stormwater systems, fill the wetlands and floodplains, degraded water quality, $6.5 billion ecosystem services, septic tank upgrades, upstate watersheds, global model brought investments into rural communities, septic tank upgrades, water filtration plants, just pay for levees and recharge the aquifer, run it over acres of impervious pavement. Then, taxpayers will pay for expensive stormwater systems.

So, remember, you can't put a dollar value on NATURE.

Stormy weather

We had planned a canoeing trip for today, but the weather report, in the paper, says we will have rain, wind, and lightening. Don't want to be out on the water if that happens. So we are waiting it out. Funny, right now the morning sun is glistening on roof-tops, leaves are brilliant, but the sky in the west is purple. Just like morning, to give the day a chance.

Top O' the Mornin' to you...

World Citizens

My husband and I have a few friends over every Sunday evening. Jay is a doctor, and has lived most of his adult life in Africa. BJ works for DSHS in administrative law. Wynne is an accountant, Tim is a publisher, and Polin is an immigrant from Cambodia who has sought assylum in the U.S. We talk about improving the quality of life of all people through peaceful means and fellowship. Nancy, a teacher, brought her children. Between all of us, there were Asians, Hawaiians, African American and Anglo. My husband wore his favorite shirt, a black one, that has various races outlined in white. It says, "There is no room in their future for prejudice", and that is really the goal of our little gathering.

Aching for Quiet

Never mind me, I'm sitting in the shadows, acknowledging that, possibly, I have a quiet moment here. The cat is asleep on the sofa and my daughter, Ruhiyyih, is packing for China. All these 40 years, I've ached for QUIET, and now, it is around the corner. Funny, when it finally arrives, the feelings are not what I had imagined. Wish the world were a little smaller. Wish China were just kitty-corner, or better yet, barely across the street.

Ever ache for quiet, get it, and sit there in the shadows wishing it hadn't happened?