Doc Gin Digs In

On Whales & Wolves, Optimism & Pessimism

2012-01-05T12:02:00.000-08:00

Frank and I (Ginny) recently watched the two-part DVD of Moby Dick, featuring William Hurt and Ethan Hawke. Though the title character is an enormous creature of the deep, the story offers an interesting glimpse of human behavior. It begins with Captain Ahab at home, struggling against the fake leg he has been cursed with since the great white whale crippled him during their last encounter at sea.

Still Ahab seems sane enough, soft spoken with his wife and son, and in quiet control of his familial relationships. It isn’t until he returns to active pursuit of the deadly whale that viewers are privy to his mental state, free of its mask. Revenge brings out the worst in him, exacerbated by the stress that goes with the hardships of life aboard a vessel manned by a crew of naïve and, in most part, not-so-bright mariners. It is a story of obsession that sinks into insanity and, although some of the sailors are colorful characters and quite likable, I found myself rooting for the whale (which was, I’m sure, the intent of the author. Well done, Herman Melville).

Psychology teaches that humans basically move intuitively away from pain and toward pleasure, but wires get crossed and behavior becomes bizarre. When this occurs, quite often delusion sets in and people behaving in the most irrational ways consider themselves perfectly rational. Their mental imbalance becomes their norm and it is others who do not share their warped view of reality who are judged by them to be flawed in their thinking. Captain Ahab would have had a difficult time understanding why any sane person would have dealt with Moby Dick in any way other than to impose suffering on others and sacrificing lives in the name of revenge.

This movie makes for fascinating people-watching by those who are inclined toward observation and analysis of human behavior. I love the way Jungian Psychoanalyst Clarissa Pinkola Estes puts it in writing of wolves. They never look at anything; they look around it, beside it, over it, under it and, if possible, through it. They are rarely fooled and in this regard they surpass humans, who can be easily taken in by the false words of others, and feigned behavior. We often see and hear what we want to see and hear, for better or worse.

Consider optimism, which is a good thing; however, too much of a good thing can turn it bad. Likewise, pessimism can sometimes serve us well. In terms of mental health the middle road is the safest path. Somewhere between optimism and pessimism is realism. Here's the kicker: It’s a nice place to visit but due to the nature of the human mind, few of us get to live there. At best reality becomes the base camp from which we are forever setting out in one direction or the other in pursuit of… whatever.

As hunters and gatherers we don’t survive by sitting still. Sometimes we get lost. We fail to see the signs along the way, or see but ignore or misinterpret them. We’re misled by other travelers, either intentionally or un. We’re called upon to make a choice, and by opting into this we are coincidentally opting out of that. Some of us never find our way back to base camp, we simply set up a new one.

There is a school of thought that tells us never look back. I find this thinking erroneous. Life lessons line up behind us, proud to have served and deserving of our appreciation. We learn the alphabet in elementary or preschool, but we would be foolish to leave it behind as finished business. It is imperative that we acknowledge it in order to put letters in an order that creates words, and then to string words together to make sentences. The past is important. It simply needs to be put in its proper place in our life.

Captain Ahab got it wrong. Instead of drawing from his past with an eye toward ensuring a better future, he was driven by it, and driven in the wrong direction. He relinquished both control and objective reflection. Some lessons are more painful than others, and loss of his leg was a high price to pay. A higher price, however, was loss of his sanity. Moby Dick didn’t take that from him. Ahab gave it away. For him there was no new base camp to be set up, unless you count the bottom of the deep, dark sea.

Studies have shown that in general optimists are happier than pessimists; however, pessimists are more accurate in their world view; more realistic, if you will. I suppose the question becomes: Do you prefer the softened sight provided by rose colored glasses, or the clear vision that lets you face the future head on?

I believe one secret to success is recognizing the difference between the two, and holding both options close at hand -- realizing of course which approach is most appropriate at any given time, and remembering that from the middle road we can always step with agility in one direction or the other.

A Little Change Can Make a Big Difference.

2011-12-08T09:17:00.000-08:00

"When you have faults, do not be afraid to abandon them." So spoke Confucius, whom we quote on our web site home page (http://www.egreen.net/), since we are in the business of helping people change bad habits, bad behavior, bad attitude, bad self-image, etc., into good.

Those familiar with Freud's life know that he had some deep seated issues, himself. When Carl Jung asked him why he didn't use his knowledge of human behavior to seek professional help, Freud said that, in order to protect his reputation, he could not let anyone know of his shortcomings. Self-help is a good thing, but sometimes we need an objective eye and a trained hand to help with transformation, which is why every good therapist has a good therapist (and yes, I am one and yes, I do).

Q: Why do we, as humans, have an innate resistance to change? A: Because it moves us out of our comfort zone. Even positive change does that, which explains why we sometimes relapse following efforts toward self-improvement. Women who have been abused will remain in or return to a harmful relationship. Even badly abused children cry to go back to their abusive parent(s). I have seen a child scarred by cigarette burns on his arms, terrified of leaving the mother who was responsible.

When we settle into a place it feels like home, and often we believe what is happening there is happening everywhere, in all homes. It becomes our norm. It allows us to relax, as opposed to putting forth effort to adapt to a new environment, either physical or emotional. This truth does not apply to humans only. I recently witnessed my horse traumatized by a move from one boarding facility to another. Horses are herding animals. Brandi has become alpha mare in every pasture she has shared, even sustaining bite marks as evidence of her struggle to reach the top. It is a psychological need she has, and it runs deep in her. By nature she is very social. Being isolated from other horses causes her great discomfort. Now she has one pasture mate, and they are duking it out. I put my money on Brandi.

An attorney I worked for more than 30 years ago was starting his own practice because the law firm where he had previously worked basically said to him, "You don't herd well." By choice or perhaps by nature he did not fit in there, or anywhere. He needed to be on his own. He and I worked well together because I could relate. I don't herd well either. Years later I tried working for a large firm where I was, to mix metaphors, a duck out of water. I stayed longer than I should have, considering I hated the games being played all around me, and as for the game players, well, I didn't like them, didn't want to be like them, but I did want them to like me. I wanted to be accepted into the herd. But of course that didn't happen (generally speaking) because to them I was a duck To myself I was simply a horse of a different color, and while they were all racing to be first across the finish line, I just wanted (and needed) to run free. Wouldn't you know this discourse would bring me back to horses? :-)

My spirit in that environment was suffocating day by day, yet I kept returning to where I believed I needed to be at that point in my life. Why? Because I made the mistake I see so many others making in the workplace -- I associated success with stress. I suppose, like Brandi, I accepted bite marks as a natural part of the process. Eventually I built upon my degree in psychology to become a therapist, and relocated to a place in life where I feel safe and valued. It isn't about making money, it's about making change possible, palatable, and even profitable for those brave enough to face it head on.

Have I settled in? Become complacent? Not only no, but hell no! I step out of my comfort zone on a regular basis, but never so far out that I can't get back. I am constantly adapting and re adapting to change, sometimes comfortably, sometimes not. Sometimes it isn't a step I take voluntarily, it is life jerking me across the line I've drawn for myself in the sand. Another Chinese proverb is that the only thing in life of which we can be certain is change.

While Brandi is gradually familiarizing herself with her new home, I am the one constant in her life. I reassure her that she is safe. This is why I visit her daily, though I'll begin to spread my visits our more over time as she adapts.

I believe what we need to remember as humans with (theoretically) superior intelligence is that, ironically, the one constant in our life is change, and although we by nature may be resistant, if we stop and think about it wouldn't life be absolutely boring if every tomorrow was just like today? Learn to recognize changes large and small. Pay attention. If you're not noticing change, you're not watching closely enough. Some change is good, some is bad, at least at the onset. Again to draw from the Chinese philosophy of Taoism, in all good there is bad and in all bad there is good, you simply have to see beneath the surface to know how to respond.

I've said it before, I'll say it again: Our psychological safety depends upon our ability to work with Life (capital L intended), not against it. Life equals Change (capital C intended).

No, I Am Not Adopting A Muskateer

2011-10-23T18:54:00.000-07:00

"Young monks at Drepung Loseling Monastery in India have little parental support," the pamphlet begins. Well, my goodness! How could I resist filling out the paperwork to become a sponsor? I mean when my ageing Inner Mother Figure hears "little parental support," it springs to its feet, waves both hands in the air, and implores the Universe -- "Send me in, Coach!" So reply I did, check included. Then came the waiting.

I of course had to immediately share the happy news with my granddaughters, Annabella (7) and Evelyn (5), giving each of them a bracelet made in Tibet and making sure they new the name of the once-upon-a-time country. Later that day I heard AB saying to EV, "... and Gramma is adopting a musketeer!"

Close enough, for a first go at it.

So today I received a picture of Konchak Jonpa. He resembles the cute little boy on the cover of the original pamphlet I perused, although I estimate an age difference between them of about twenty years. Konchak was born in 1985. So there goes my cuddling fantasy. It's just as well, since careful consideration leads me to believe monks don't cuddle, not even with an ageing Inner Mother Figure.

I'm adjusting.

Sponsorship money goes into a general fund for the welfare of the entire monastery, so all monks receive equal benefits and none are left out. This makes my ageing Inner Mother Figure smile approvingly. If only the rest of life could be so simple. Twenty-six seems fine with me, and while there's so much more I'd like to know about Konchak, I will not ask. He is, after all, representative, not real -- in the sense that he won't be flying to the US to spend the holidays with us, and we certainly won't be visiting the monastery in India -- that sort of thing.

I've previously been leery of donating to charities for two reasons: one, the uncertainty of exactly where my money will end up and two, there are so many charities, how does one choose? I've always had a fascination with Tibet, a reverence for its ancient culture, and in recent years (I admit it) a wee crush on the Dali Lama. When I recently attended a performance by Tibetan Monks demonstrating their dances, songs, and chants, I was touched deeply by the realization that this facet of humanity is in real danger of annihilation. If my monthly check doesn't forestall such a drastic fate, at least it can help put food on the table to sustain those who are devoted to a life of peace, wisdom and compassion.

My use of humor in writing of the commitment I've made is not meant to imply that I don't take it seriously. I do. Konchak's picture will be framed and hung on my family photos wall. It is, in truth, not a photo of a man or even of a monk, it is a reminder to me that there is hope for humankind. There is a place on this earth far from my home where, though life is hard, young men don't cross the street to join a gang. They cross the Himalayas to join a monastery.

For more info: www.drepung.org

Jonathan

2011-09-30T07:25:00.000-07:00

Jonathan was a soft, warm man living in a hard, cold shell that he created purposely to keep people out of his personal life. Over the years I wore away at that exterior like water drops falling on stone, until an opening appeared tiny enough to sneak through. He did and didn't appreciate my persistence.

In our high school freshman English classroom (1956) he called us Miss this and Mr. that, which let us know the only way we could conduct ourselves during those 50 minutes in his presence was with dignity. Well, as much dignity as a teenager can conjure up. He used words like complacency, vicarious, and auspicious. He insisted we all memorize John Dunnne's No Man is an Island. I know it to this day.

He was a man of mystery back then, wearing very dark glasses whenever outdoors, sporting a practically permanent frown, speaking softly always yet sternly when appropriate. Never talking down to us, but expecting us to rise up to meet him on a higher road. Now and then he would surprise us with his unique wit.

My parents divorced when I was small, and my father lived in other parts of the world. My stepfather was not a nice man. In retrospect I believe the reason Jonathan lived in the spotlight on the stage of my young life was that in the role he played opposite me, he never yelled at me, never swore at me, never hit me, never behaved inappropriately toward me. He was gentle, kind, intelligent, supportive, and inspiring. When I handed in an original short story as an assignment, it came back to me with his note in red ink -- "I am constrained to ask the painful question -- did you write this?" Crushed, I assured him I had and he asked me to write another for him, after which he said to me the magical words, "You are a writer." It wasn't until my thirties that I began to believe him, to prove him right, and we reconnected.

There is so much I'm grateful for relating to Jonathan, but more than anything else I think I am grateful that he and my husband were able to know and like each other. A few years back he invited us to spend a weekend with him at his home in Tahoe. He made it clear that we were free to wander off to sight see or visit the casinos. I made it clear we were there to spend every waking moment just being with him, which came so easily to all three of us. There were so many questions I had asked him throughout the years about himself and his life, receiving only cryptic replies. I had no idea he had stored my questions away, to answer them in his own time. At Tahoe he talked. It was almost as though he had been waiting until he knew I had someone at my side to help me support the weight of his words.

Among other things he told us that, as a young US Marine, his duty during the Korean war had been to document interrogations led by the CIA. He carried a heavy and hurtful burden on his shoulders for the rest of his life. With his death my consolation is knowing that the burden has been lifted. And while it is said that most tears shed graveside are for words unspoken and deeds undone, I know with absolute certainty that I said and did everything within my power to let Jonathan know throughout our relationship that he holds a special place in my heart. He felt unworthy, of course, embarrassed at times, but now and then one corner of his mouth would turn up ever so slightly, letting me know he was secretly pleased.

I thought I was prepared for his eventual death. Frank and I had planned in advance. He read the obituaries daily and we had rehearsed how he would inevitably break the news to me in the least devastating manner possible. Yesterday he simply said "Oh-oh," put down the newspaper, and stood with his arms open, saying, "Come here." That was when my crying began. It hasn't stopped yet but it is lessening.

Joanthan's last words to me (a phrase he repeated often) were, "Strive on." Rest in peace, Jonathan, and rest assured that I am striving on. I am striving on.

Life in the Slowing Down Lane

2011-09-20T20:11:00.000-07:00

When Frank and I married in 1976, I had two teenage sons from a previous marriage. Several months after our wedding we decided to have a baby together, and that explains our Jennifer, 14 years younger than her brother Jeff, 16 years younger than her brother Craig. She is Frank's only child, although he always claims a proud stake in the boys as well, since he saw us all through their teen years and supported me emotionally during the letting-go-of-them stage. Which was tough. On me. Not them. As is usually the case, they could not WAIT to be out and on their own.

Now all our children are adults, two of them with children of their own, and one of their daughters a mother herself. It has been an incredible journey for this mom/dad/grandma/grandpa/great grandmother/great grandfather. An adventure in learning lessons from the younger generations as they grew up and we grew old-er -- some of the lessons happy ones, others not so much; but all worth the impact they've had on our lives.

It literally took me years to adjust to the empty nest once Jennifer tested her wings and flew off into the rising sun that shed both light and shadows on the path the chose for herself. My eyes still tear up when I recall waking up the first morning that she was... gone. Frank joyously danced about the house naked, reveling in his new found freedom. I felt as though I was coming out of anesthesia only to find that an important part of me had been surgically removed. I had known in advance that it was coming, but still it hurt. For a long time.

Her father and I continued to make our lives all about her. It was like breathing -- something we simple could not not do. Zen tells us that all paths lead to the top of the mountain, which may be true, but as her path took her further and further from us, the only thing that has kept us climbing has been our little grandchildren. Wouldn't you know it? We have made them the center of our universe.

Since they do not live under our roof, however, as had their mother, there are times when we have empty hours to fill. We run our own business, with Frank being the social networking one while I lean more toward cocooning, we maintain our own home, and we have many activities that let us enjoy each other's company (ranging from good TV, good books, good movies, good music, good coffee on our deck listening mornings to the countless birds that live in our trees, and good wine as we later sit on that same deck watching the sun set). We also talk a lot -- mostly about life.

Which has led us to a new facet that we are now exploring -- called friends. We're somewhat picky, opting for quality over quantity, but it's amazing how the universe has provided recently by arranging that our path cross other paths being travelled by folks (outside of family) who are fun and interesting and inclined to enjoy our company as much as we enjoy theirs. A new chapter in our book is being written, to mix metaphors.

We can't always hold our babies and rock them and sing to them and tell them stories (mostly about horsies), but by golly we can sure brag about them and show off their pictures! As can our friends about their offspring... while we wonder together where all the years have gone, and where future years will lead us. Life continues to be an adventure, even though our footsteps aren't a steady as they used to be.

Weathering Storms

2011-09-01T07:47:00.000-07:00

I recently read an accounting of a woman hiking high in the Himalayas with her husband, stepson, guides and pack horses. A sudden, unexpected blizzard spooked the animals, who ran off with all the gear and supplies, while the snow blinded the travelers from seeing even a hand in front of a face. They had no way of knowing if the storm would last hours, days or weeks, but as they huddled together beneath a rock overhang, they passed the night hoping and praying for the best. This story brought to mind an experience of my own, paler by comparison but life altering, nonetheless.

There was a year during the early seventies when a storm hit central California, severe enough to close down San Francisco's Bay Bridge. My brother barely made it across in time to pick me up in Stockton so that we could make a long-planned trip to a yoga retreat in Nevada City that I wanted to visit desperately enough to decide against cancelling our plans. When we arrived we found ourselves in snow, previously unknown at that low elevation. We parked the car when the dirt road became undriveable, grabbed our backpacks, and hiked in for what we expected would be only half hour, What we discovered, however, was that not only were the trails obscured by the cold, wet, white stuff, so were the signs stuck in the ground along the way to show the turns that needed to be made.

The weather worsened. All three of us wore glasses, but had to take them off as they became covered by snow. Thirty minutes became hours, as darkness fell and we became colder and wetter in our jeans, sweatshirts and tennis shoes. I found myself having to use my freezing bare hands and heavy arms to lift one leg in front of me at a time, out of the knee high snow, and place it mere inches in front of me. My son had taken my backpack from me, carrying it in his arms along with his own on his back. At one point I began to think that freezing to death might not be such a hard way to go, as I imagined it would become numbing both mentally and physically. I briefly considered just lying down in the snow and staying there rather than to continue to fight the pain in my body from forcing it to move. I knew, however, that if I did that my son would not go on without me, and that, along with thoughts of my other son at home, is what kept me going. Long story short, we eventually followed a light in the distance, happened upon a cabin miles beyond where we should have veered left, and accepted a flashlight from the couple there who gave seemed so strange that, despite being soaking wet and exhausted, we declined their hot tea and invitation to stay overnight. After five of the longest and most miserable hours of my life we found the retreat. It was one of three times in my life when I feared the grim reaper was headed my way.

At that time I had barely begun my experience of yoga, and wasn't aware of the resources more recently put to use by the woman hiking in the Himalayas. Instead of my dismal mental state mind while stranded in my own storm, she focused her thoughts that night on... the sun, imagining its warmth, but also the reassurance that rests in the awareness that -- no matter what -- the sun always rises. She filled her mind with a sense of calmness and trust in the natural scheme of thinks, knowing that even though she couldn't see the sun shining down on her, she could trust that it was there for her somewhere. Uncertain though she was as to whether or not she would survive, she was filled with the inner conviction that she was fulfilling her purpose in life not by always having what she wanted, but by accepting whatever life sent her way and using it to the best of her ability. Her roots in Raja Yoga (yoga of the mind) were tested that night. She passed.

In the current economy we are all weathering our own storms. Sadly some will not make it out alive financially or psychologically, others will escape but not unscathed. All our lives will be affected, and how we are then, when the climate clears, depends somewhat on the survival skills we put to use now.

The same holds true of emotional storms that can shatter our equanimity. Raja Yoga defines a purusa as "a special being, divine energy, higher power, or God, according to ones' own orientation... " and advises us during times of fear, injury or heartbreak, to detach from suffering by "letting go of the illusion of control over the circumstances of your life." What the Himalayan hiker learned from her experience was that we need to continue along our path doing the best we can, hoping, dreaming, praying and pursuing what we want in life even as we stumble and fall from time to time. But when things don't go according to our plan, there is a grander plan -- and she advises us that realizing the outcome of our efforts is often out of our hands allows us to move forward with the peace that comes from accepting this.

My Interesting Answer to an Inner Conflict

2011-08-23T13:23:00.000-07:00

I have an inner conflict.

Because I was only 19 when my first son was born, 21 when his brother came along, and 35 when I gave birth to my daughter, I now have two sets of grandchildren. The older set range in age from 20 to 25. The younger set range in age from due in December to seven. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I didn't get as much time with the older grandchildren as I would have liked. I lived with it.

Knowing all too well from our personal experience how times flies when you are having fun with your children's children, my husband and I have more control over our schedule in our sixties than when we were younger, and we've used this latitude to arrange our lives around the smaller set. We ask for them often, and are offered them often -- under normal circumstances.

They live only 30 minutes away, but their stay-at-home mom's schedule is very hectic, as you can imagine, dropping off and picking up two of them for school at different times, regulating the baby's nap, and taking the others to swim class, gymnastics class, and so on. Their father (who is so nuts about them that it brings squirrels and baseball games to mind) works at a very challenging and stressful job. Coming home to them every weekday and having weekends with them are what keep him going. Understandable. Because our time with them is what keeps us going too.

So here's the conflict: My son-in-law's job provides a very comfortable lifestyle for his family, but it comes with the possibility of transfer to a distant location. My daughter has recently pointed out that my husband and I need to prepare ourselves for the possible separation by spending less time with the little ones, and she is the one in complete control of if and when we get to have them. So the question becomes, is she right? Should we spend less time with them now so that if/when they move away it will be less painful? Or should we pursue every moment we can muster, while they are nearby?

Inner conflict can be explained as the conscious part of the mind (where we do our thinking) disagreeing with the subconscious part of the mind (where we do our feeling). Sometimes that line becomes muddled and the information stored mentally intermingles, as is the case for me now. Then the answer to the dilemma becomes, "I don't know."

Normal circumstances don't always prevail. My daughter is pregnant (hormonaly challenged) and I am 70 (read old and crotchety, not to mention hypersensitive). We both have a history of depression and she cannot take medication in her condition. My depression is episodic, not chronic, therefor medication isn't recommended (plus many years ago when the problem was chronic, I experienced undesirable side effects of all medications I tried). All this adds up to a mother/daughter relationship that is touchy and... tenuous... at times. Such as now.

This means that we can only see her children when she deems it acceptable. At her will and mercy, as her father puts it. This leaves us in a very uncomfortable position because we know from experience with our first set, that little ones grow big in the blink of an eye. If anything were to happen to us within the next few years, Annabella's memories of us would be hazy, Evelyn's even more so, Olivia's and Scarlett's nonexistent. (How much do you remember before the age of seven?) We've made certain to take photos of all the goods times we've had with them, but photos can only hint at a relationship.

My husband and I, alone together, take solace in enjoying each other and the many activities we share. But without our grandchildren (around whom, under normal circumstances, we plan much of our our lives), our corner can seem very dark and dismal. At least we're in it together. Frank and I handle testy relationships differently. Emotionally he holds them off at a distance, whereas with me they're as close as the nose on my face. We balance each other out.

There is a metaphor I've created for the aging process. When our children are old enough to drive, we sit in passenger seat next to them. Later we're moved to the backseat because someone more important is up front. Eventually we're put in the trunk to make room for others in the back. Then, at some point in time, we're taken out of the trunk and placed somewhere in a corner of their lives. Despite our full lives, when we are too long from our grandchildren, Frank and I have found our corner can sometimes seem dark and dismal. That's just the way it is.

Eastern & Western Indians (But Not in That Order)

2011-08-18T09:48:00.000-07:00

In our collection of old movies and TV shows stored on VHS, is a based-on-fact movie called Walks Far Woman. Starring, if you can believe it, Raquel Welch. Despite the fact that I’m not a huge fan of Raquel’s, this happens to be one of my favorite movies.

She plays an Indian banned by her tribe for killing her husband (in self-defense). After wandering a while she is taken in by another tribe, to live with the chief and his wife. Enter the young brave who falls in love/hate with her. Love because she’s gorgeous, hate because she is also athletic; and the two become highly competitive.

The handsome man eventually visit’s the tepee of the chief and explains awkwardly that he is confused about the beautiful Walks Far Woman’s position in the chief‘s family. “Do you think of her as your daughter? Your sister? Or your wife?” The chief replies, “All of these.”

“And if I were to ask to marry her, how would I do that?” asks the young man. The chief replies,

“The old ways are always best.”

This comes to my mind as I prepare for the Traditional Yoga class I’ll be teaching when the new semester begins in a few weeks at the University of the Pacific. I call my class Traditional Yoga because, over the 40 years I’ve been teaching, I’ve seen so many changes take place. When someone asks me what style I teach, I say, “I began teaching before styles existed.” This means before Yoga became Americanized, commercialized, transformed into a business complete with cute clothes and trinkets and gadgets that are sold to increase revenue.

Now you can find Hot Yoga, Aqua Yoga, even Laughing Yoga, to name a few. You can find classes where a teacher merely strikes poses in front of the group, expecting them to follow the example asasks you to move into a forward bend and then puts all of his weight on you to force your stretch, and classes where a teacher asks you to remain in a posture for 20 or 30 possibly uncomfortable minutes.

I teach as I was taught by four different teachers, one of whom was from India. With the exception of one instructor, they also taught the way they were taught. They carried on the tradition of yoga without making changes to create a style they could then name after themselves, promote, and use to make big bucks. The one exception should have called his class Ego Yoga, since in each of the 10 classes he taught we spent most of our time listening to him tell us how great and wonderful he believed himself to be and how fortunate we were to be in his presence. Years after that I became certified by Kriyananda of the Ananda Yoga Retreat. It too has changed to become modernized, but I continue to visit and I relish my memories of “the good old days” when it was more rustic.

Once, in the dimly lit room of a health club where I was teaching, a gentleman came in after class began and sat silently in the back. I assumed he was there to observe rather than participate. Afterwards he came up to me and explained with an intriguing Indian accent that he had been visiting various classes on his visit to America. Mine, he told me, was the only one that “felt like Yoga. In fact,” he added with his palms together and a slight tip of his head (and this gives me chills every time it crosses my mind) “For me it was like a visit home.”

I’ve never tried to make a living at teaching Yoga. My belief is that Yoga is a personal experience, and in the traditional sense every teacher is sharing his or her personal experience of Yoga with students. I find it difficult to place the component of money into that equation. Yes, I’m often (and currently) paid to teach; but over the years I’ve also taught many classes without charging, and others with all proceeds going to the sponsoring organization.

As for “styles,” in my mind any Yoga at all is better than no Yoga. I’m 70 this year and who knows how much longer I’ll be in the front of the class sharing my Yoga experience with university students young enough to be my grandchildren? While I am, however, I’ll be teaching as I have taught for 40 years, following in the footsteps of my teachers, who followed in the footsteps of theirs.

I believe the old ways are always best.

With Appreciation to Our Military

2011-08-06T16:47:00.000-07:00

TV commentators have announced that a Chinook helicopter was recently shot down by the Taliban, killing all 30 on board -- including a dozen members of Seal Team Six. I just finished reading a book by that title, written by retired seal team six member Howard Wasdin. (My father's career centered on espionage. He could never discuss his work and refused to write his memoirs despite my urgings. So material of this nature is meaningful to me.)

It is possible that reporters are doing what they typically do -- reporting a possibility as though it were a certainty in order to awfulize it for higher ratings. Even if no passengers were special ops our nation's tragedy is devastating enough -- I mourn the loss of every military man and woman -- but to lose a number of our most stringently and technically trained soldiers leaves me at a loss for words to describe my sorrow.

I typically tend to be wordy when I express thoughts and feelings, but on this occasion I'll only go on to say that in high school freshman English class (1955) our teacher, Jonathan Pearce, assigned to us the memorization of a poem by John Donne. To this day I can recite it in its entirety but don't worry, I'm only going to share a few lines for those unfamiliar with it:

No man is an island, entire of itself

Each man's death diminishes me

For I am involved in mankind.

War is ugly and unforgiving -- the underbelly of life we wish did not exist. Yet exist it does. I did not know any of those whose lives were so dramatically sacrificed in this incident, nor do I know their names or any of their loved ones. But I take this painful loss personally. I have an intellectual understanding of the gruelling challenges they faced voluntarily to become who and what they became, knowing all too well the risks involved. And I know that the high price they've paid is shared by parents, siblings, spouses, children, friends, and comrades. That's a hell of a lot of sorrow swirling about in the universe and it's as though I can feel their tears burning my cheeks.

Dr. Wasdin's book is a worthwhile read. I highly recommend it. Short of that, English poet John Donne's poem (written in the 1600s) is also worthy of consideration. Even at the crazy age of 15 it left a lasting effect on me.

In This Day and Age

2011-07-31T12:07:00.000-07:00

I just finished mowing the front lawn. Frank used to mow the lawn, front and back; but when I began to notice him tiring too easily I insisted he mow in back one day and in front the next. Now I insist on doing the mowing, while he pulls weeds (less strenuous). My legs will talk to me tomorrow (and they won't say thank you) but Frank has more serious issues at play, so my legs and I will have that conversation when the time comes but in the meantime I've done the right thing.

Yes, we could hire a gardener, as we have in years past. But we aren't of a mind to pay some young whippersnapper to come in to mow-and-blow at his own convenience, then spray chemicals (that give me sinus headaches) to control the weeds. There was a time when you could hire a kid to spend an hour a week keeping your flowerbed weed-free, but kids don't do that anymore. They don't need the money because their parents shower them with two of everything, and such a menial task would interfere with their overactive social and overstimulated intellectual life.

When Frank and I went to visit and groom my horse last night, she would NOT lift her foot to let Frank clean her hooves (easier for him than for me in the past, because it requires bending over and supporting the weight of her leg with one hand while using the hoof pick in the other hand). I took over and she gave me no resistance.

I remembered the time she would NOT go into one corner of the riding arena for me. I spent 10 minutes trying every technique I knew (and admittedly my riding skills are limited). When I finally looked beyond the fence I saw two coyotes in the nearby orchard. Horses have their own way of knowing things. And letting you know. I had forgotten last night that Frank is not at his best but somehow Brandi knew he should not be the one to clean her hooves.

He was the one who got me out there in the first place though. I've decided for a variety of reasons that Brandi needs a new person. Someone younger than me, who can give her the attention and exercise she deserves. I was hoping my grandson would take her, or his goddaughter's mom, but they aren't ready for the responsibility of a horse. Had they said yes, I would not have seen her again, but would have asked them to simply pick up and trailer her to her new home. Less painful without the goodbye. Since they said no thanks, Frank convinced me that while I am pursuing other possibilities, I need to continue to nurture my relationship with her. So off we drove to the ranch, lump in my throat be damned.

I'm not selling her, I'm giving her away. No amount of money can equal what she means to me. But if you're interested don't bother contacting me unless I know you well. I will not let her go to a stranger. I need someone I'm certain will treat her kindly and who will commit to seeing her through to the end of her trail. I don't want her handed off willy nilly from person to person. She's not getting any younger either, and she does not adapt well to change. As for me, I love her enough to let her go, and I fear the time has come.

Getting old is not for sissies, and ironically it strikes at us when we are at our weakest. Frank and I love our home but it's high maintenance and we're exploring options for an apartment in a seniors apartment complex. We've always done a pretty good job taking care of each other, but recently we've learned there are times when we are in individual survival mode and neither one is in any condition to compensate for the other's frailty. Frank has always helped me remember my vitamins (and sometimes even remember to eat); but now he is using his I-phone to remind himself to take his medication. One requires one pill a day. Another requires two pills a day. The third requires three pills a day. Yeah, we could write it down but neither of us would remember to look at the list. We need someone looking in on us occasionally. I know there are places where you can push one button that signals "help" and another that signals "leave us alone, we're fine." Then again I suppose someone has to remember to push the right button.

Yes, we have family, but they have lives of their own. A few nights back we watched Clint Eastood's Gran Torino, which speaks loud and clear to to the generation and communication gap that can sneak up on old people. Anyone who can't relate to that movie on one level or another gets brownie points in my book. Even in the best of families, reliance on someone you love can only add to the drama playing out in their own lives -- an unfair burden. This, I believe, is why old people "cocoon."

Well tomorrow it's back to the hospital for more tests for Frank and, who knows? When the results come back "well and clear" the two of us may break into an energetic happy dance that reassures us (rightly or not) that we're not as old as we've recently come to believe we are. Meanwhile it's do a little, rest a little. Do a little, rest a little. Remember to keep an eye on each other even if we forget why, and...

Hmmm. I had an idea for a great way to end this, but now I've forgotten what it was.

A Highly Sensitive Subject (Me)

2011-07-19T11:13:00.000-07:00

All medical conditions have emotional components to varying degree. I'm not talking psychosomatic here (where an issue originates in the mind and the body then acts it out), I'm talking about (a) stress, which makes every condition worse and, more particularly, (b) self-image, which is a patient taking on a condition as their identity -- I have ADD becomes I am ADD.

We've observed that once a condition is either self-diagnosed or validated by a professional, it takes on even more importance. Vague aches and pains become Fibromyalgia. Mood swings and irritability become Premenstrual Syndrome. Gastrointestinal inconsistencies become Irritable Bowel Syndrome. A wandering and forgetful mind becomes Attention Deficit Disorder. Fixation on repeated thoughts or behavior becomes Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. But wait, there's more.

Once these conditions become common enough to be known by and called by their initials, they have made an important breakthrough into societal acceptance. FMA, PMS, IBS, ADD, OCD.
Instead of name dropping a person gains a sense of self-importance by simply dropping initials. Impressive. Expeditious.

Am I being snidely critical of others? No, I am simply setting the groundwork for making fun of myself. In a way. Because now EYE have a fancy name for what afflicts me, and I have initials! HSP! Hyper Sensitive Personality (or Highly Sensitive Person, if you prefer simplicity).

A recent article in Psychology Today says of HSPs (like me) that we are extremely perceptive to nuances unnoticed by others, that we are especially sensitive to animals and how they are handled, that our feelings are easily bruised by occurrences that others would simply shrug off, and that we have a complex inner life, sensing and internalizing the moods of others on top of our own.

Lines between fact and fantasy become blurred for us, which explains why certain scenes in movies have me covering my eyes and ears, sometimes even leaving the room, and why I skip over disturbing passages in novels. It explains why I prefer the quiet environment of my home to social interaction that can sometimes deplete me, and even why I am often impulsive -- intensified sensory input consumes psychic resources for thinking before acting. Ernest Hartmann, a psychiatrist at Tufts University, in solidifying boundaries as a dimension of personality, says of HSPs (like me), "It's as if those with thin boundaries have porous shells that allow more of their environment to penetrate and 'get' to them."

This also explains why I am highly perceptive to the complexities I encounter in dealing with clients and their psychological issues. This is a good thing in that it gives me more information to work with therapeutically. I liken this to the wolf nature that permeates my favorite book, Women Who Run With The Wolves (Dr. Claire Pinkola Estes). Wolves don't just look at -- they look over, under, beside, and even through. On the other hand it can be a bad thing. If my guard is down I literally feel a client's pain, and then must see to the healing of my own psyche.

In another context, years ago when I was a legal secretary in a large law firm, an attorney once said to my husband, "The thing about Ginny is she sees through all the b...sh...t." Guilty. I did. I do. I catch myself often asking my husband, "Don't people realize how obvious they are?" No, he assures me, most do not.

But back to Psychology Today. Jerome Kagan, a Harvard psychologist. found that brain imaging studies reflect "a distinctive biological feature: a hyperresponsive amygdala" (the brain center that assesses threats and governs the fear response). Thus HSPs (like me) are hypervigilant. Cortical areas linked to attention and processing perpetual data show higher activation in response to all kinds of stimuli. HSPs (like me) perceive the slighest sensory or emotional provocation and respond "with a flurry of brain activity" that others consider an overreaction. In the words of Andrea Bartz, Psycholoogy Today news editor, hypersenstivity is "neither a flaw nor a gift, but rather an amplifier of an environment's effect."

So, now that I have a self-diagnosis and initials, the advice I am giving myself is the same that I have given countless clients over the years -- it's not what you have, it's what you do with it. I can take on the identity of an HSP and use it to excuse my attitude and behavior (as in, "I can't help it! I am an HSP, you know,") or I can use the magic word I've so often encouraged others to use -- just. As in, "This isn't the end of the world, it's just my hypersensitivity playing games with me."

Which isn't to say it doesn't hurt when the HSP ball hits you in the psyche; however, while it is hurting (more deeply than it would hurt most others) I can remind myself of what a 10-year-old boy told a news commentator years ago after donating a kidney to save his father's life. When she asked him, "Didn't that hurt?" he said simply, "Why are people so afraid of pain?" Or, as my granddaughter said to me when she was 5 and broke a crayon, "It's just part of life, Gramma."

On a good day I'll remember and apply this wisdom. On a bad day? Well, no one's perfect, especially an HSP, like... you know who.

Something to Think About, Hmmmm....

2011-07-03T17:01:00.000-07:00

Business people offer guarantees to attract customers and to increase their income. If your washer doesn’t work, they’ll repair or replace it. If your car falls apart, they put it back together for you or provide you something similar. They play the odds. In most cases all goes well and they don’t have to carry through with their end of the agreement. In some cases, when a customer does return seeking satisfaction the business is no longer there, has "changed" its policy, or lays out prerequisites that are impossible to meet.

Legitimate health care professionals do not offer guarantees. Surgeons cannot guarantee success. They will do the best job possible and hope for patient compliance, but the healing and recovery are up to you. Marriage counselors cannot guarantee they will save your marriage. He or she cannot. You are the only one who can do that... perhaps with help from others.

Think about it. If you want to use hypnosis to stop smoking, and you are given a guarantee that if “it doesn’t work” you can return for a free follow up session, from a psychological viewpoint you have been given permission to fail. You might think, “Oh well, if it doesn’t work I’ll just go back. Maybe next week. Till then I'll just smoke some more.” This weakens your motivation to succeed. The "guarantee" is in the business person’s best interest, not yours; because (a) many people falling short of success won’t bother coming back, thinking, “If it didn’t work the first time why would it work a second time?” or, “It’s too much bother,” and (b) those who do decide to return may find that the business has gone out of business.

While we’ve been practicing professionally since 1992, with impeccable credentials and with community awards for excellence, we’ve seen many others in this field come and go. Why? Because there are no state regulations or oversight, meaning that hypnotherapists are not held to standards of practice. With no solid foundation in psychology (the science of human behavior), most people discover it is more difficult to achieve and maintain success than they were led to believe by the hypnosis "school" (actually a business) of their choice. With their sights set primarily on making money (and maybe helping some people in the process), they find that to most people their misplaced priorities are transparent.

To make sure that you are dealing with someone with a successful track record and a stable reputation in your community, do a little research -- including checking on (a) the history of their business license, (b) the existence of liability insurance, and (c) the location of their business. Are they seeing people in their home (unsafe, and in some cases illegal)? If not, how long have they been in an office? Is clinical hypnosis something they do there full time, or do they share space with someone else, and pop in occasionally to do a session? Is hypnotherapy their only business, or one of many ways they generate income -- which doesn't make them a bad person, it simply makes them an entrepreneur, not a health care professional.

A big difference that raises a little cause for concern.

A Rising Tide Lifts All Boats

2011-06-17T11:48:00.000-07:00

Frank and I are privileged to enjoy a profession that provides a comfortable lifestyle (we have simple tastes, which helps.) When I began the business in 1992 he was working in retail management (underpaid and unappreciated) and while he was coming home feeling used and drained, I was the one coming home with an ear-to-ear grin and receiving lovely thank you notes from the clients I had helped. That elated realization that your contribution has made life better for someone else in a meaningful way, is what we call a "Helper's High." Frank eventually joined me at Evergreen, proving if there's anything better than a happy camper, it's two happy campers!

In 2002 I created a venue through which others can have the same rewarding experience.

I created a FREE Peer Level Support Group called Rising Tide, which consists of 5-10 members who learn and practice simple, specific self-improvement techniques on a weekly basis. The setting is casual & comfortable and the agenda combines structure and sponaneity within the context of pleasant conversation. Focus centers on 4 areas of life: 1) Creating and maintaining a positive mindset, 2) problem solving with input from others, 3) goal setting with accountability, and 4) stress management.

Many groups were formed, and some members remained actively involved for years. Literally. Those attending included a woman dealing with her mother's Alzheimers Disease, a man who described himself at the onset as "suicidal," a stay-at-home dad with borderline agorophobia, and a self-made millionaire who was healthy, happily married, and yet considered himself a loser. Others were in difficult relationships, or meeting the challange of raising teens, or stuck in a go-nowhere job they hated, or feeling disillusioned with life, or simply wondering whatever happened to that upbeat, energetic "old" self they could barely remember.

Despite the problems we all deal with in life, a basic concept in Rising Tide is that, based on your life experiencestress, goals, problems, helping others resolve their issues gives you a helper's high! The encouragement and support is reciprocal, and in an hour-and-a-half, no matter how "down" or dejected or discouraged you may have felt coming into the meeting, it's guaranteed you'll leave feeling better! That's right -- guaranteed!

In today's general atmosphere that is cloaked in uncertainty about our future as idividuals, as a business, or even as a nation, it is more important than ever before that we use every resource available to us to keep our heads above water in a psychological sense. For this reason, I am reprising the group and inviting anyone interested to give it a go. I'm willing to bet it's like no other group you've ever attended. (No hypnosis, no prayer, no mediation is involved.)

Let me reiterate and reassure you that membership costs you nothing other than your commitment to attend six consecutive meetings. This is important because with regular, consistent application of techniques that are effective and enjoyable, your results become lasting. You simply develop a new way of looking at and dealing with life!

Meetings will begin the 3rd week in July and run through the 4th week of August. Which day of the week and what time of the day depends on input from those who contact me to register. I'll be as accomodating as possible. I can be reached at 209-406-9901 or by e-mail at docgin@egreen.net.

This is an opportunity for you to find out for yourself that a rising tide does, in fact, lift all boats!

What's So Special About Seventy?

2011-05-30T17:27:00.000-07:00

My husband has been asking me lately what I want to do for my birthday in September. It should be something special, he tells me, since this will be my 70th. His argument has merit, and so I have been giving this some thought. The problem is, I am feeling uninspired.

The fact that he asked, "What do you want to do for your birthday as opposed to, "What do you want for your birthday?" proves how well he understands me (i.e., better than anyone else ever has or will). I certainly don't want or need gifts. He and I stopped exchanging gifts years ago when we realized the most fun in giving a present is the element of surprise, and we can't surprise each other because we can't keep a secret from each other.

Rather than things, what I value most from others is their time. One of my greatest pleasures is having a son or daughter or grandchild spend time with me and at least seem to genuinely enjoy it as much as I do. It's common knowledge that children want attention, acceptance and approval from their parents. A lesser known truth is that parents want the same from their kids. It's called validation. It gives meaning to our lives.

Traveling is one of my least favorite things to do. I enjoy other places, it's just that I wish I could teleport to and from them, and not have to pack or unpack. Alaska is my favorite place, Hawaii comes in second, but I've been there/done that enough times that I wouldn't call going again to turn 70 in either place special. Over the years Frank and I typically plan vacations that take us away from the hustle and bustle of business and book promotion, and I have fond memories of hiking a remote trail with no one else in sight, and walking a beach that was, for the time, ours alone. On the other hand, last year we travelled with family for a week, eight of us sharing a luxury condo on Waikiki -- and had an awesome time.

The difference being family.

Aha! A distinct clue. Nothing I enjoy more than family, so why not keep it simple, I'm now thinking. Everyone has such busy lives that take them in so many different directions, just gathering the clan in one place at one time qualifies as special! I may be onto something here. A sunny September day, a sparkling swimming pool, good food, cold champagne, a cake with lots of frosting, maybe Jennifer Lind, John Denver, and SCOTTY singing over outdoor speakers, kids, grandkids, great grandkids all happy I'm still healthy and mobile and for the most part independent.. wow... it almost makes 70 sound downright inviting!

Okay, so having put together in my mind my Walt Disney version of a birthday that seems as though it should be different from all the others (though I'm not sure why -- 70 is just another number, after all), keeping it really simple, I wouldn't mind waking up that morning, putting on my jeans and boots, and heading out to the ranch for a nice quiet ride on Brandi. Then coming home to a cold beer and a long soak in a lavender-scented tub, a few phone calls, and some cards to stand on the mantle over the pellet stove. Hokey though it may seem, I love my family whether they are near or far, together or apart. And they find wonderful ways almost every day of the year to let me feel loved.

I'd have to be crazy to want or need anything more than what I already have.

A Piece of Pakistan in my Family History

2011-05-05T06:13:00.000-07:00

My parents were divorced when I was very young. My father remarried, had a son, and pursued his military career with vigor, retiring eventually as a Colonel and Chief of Instruction for Army Intelligence. He was never able to talk about his work, and after his death when I attempted to obtain his military records I learned they had been stored in a building in Kentucky that, at some point in the past, caught fire, everything inside destroyed. Okaaay... One of the many places he lived was Pakistan. Following the death of Bin Laden, my brother sent me the following information, which I thought readers might also find interesting.

Abbottabad, where Bin Laden was killed, is about a 30 minute drive from Murree, on a narrow, winding, mountain road, and is named for a British general. It is in rolling foothill country that's a bit cooler and greener than the hot, dusty flat land down at the capital of Islamabad, which is why so many Pakistani army folks have homes there.

In 1958-59 Dad, Mom and I lived in Murree HIlls (not the village itself). Murree is higher in elevation than Abbottabad and in the steeper mountains very close to the disputed (still today) border with India. We then moved to Rawalpindi for a year, the capital at that time, as construction on the new capital city of Islamabad (adjacent to Rawalpindi) was begun.

The Murree Christian School's stone church is where I attended 2nd and 3rd grades. They had divided part of the church interior into separate classrooms, and it still looks in photos very much as it did 52 years ao. When we lived in Rawalpindi I would stay in the school's boys dormitory in Murree Hills during the week and take the hour-plus drive home on weekends. A search on the internet identified the 1959-60 dormitory as the Sandes Soldiers Home, a former convalescent facility for soldiers of the British Indian Army (Pakistan was part of India back then). It's now being used as a dorm for 6th grade and up. [In a photo, it is a 2-story building with a steep pitched roof and white porch railings.] The old stone church is named "Garrison Church" and was an Anglican church used by British soldiers stationed in Murree back when.

There was an armed attack on the school by 4 masked Islamist gunmen in August 2002, in which 6 Pakistani security guards were killed. None of the kids or teachers were hurt. I hope they didn't later become a target again. Just thought you might like to have some family history of where Dad was stationed at one point[relative to recent highly publicized event].

I tried relentlessly (and unsuccessfully) to talk my father into writing his memoirs, which included 5 amphibious landings during WWII as a young infantryman, and later, many colorful countries as his residence. When I was in my twenties he visited the states, escorting an Iranian General who was here for medical treatment. They came to my home for dinner, which is material for a story I'll tell another time --guaranteed to amuse.

Business is Business & Other Platitudes

2011-04-28T07:29:00.000-07:00

I know a man who sold boats. He worked on commission. One day he sold a boat to his son, who paid cash. Weeks later his son was sitting next to the owner of the boat business, having drinks.

"How are you enjoying that new boat?" asks the owner. "Loving it," replies the son. "Heck of a price I gave you on it," says the owner, mentioning specifically what that price was. Pause. "Yeah. Heck of a price all right,thanks," son agrees. When he later asked his father why he paid $500 more than the price the owner believed the boat sold for, his father replied, "Oh that. That was my commission. Business is business, son."

Full disclosure: I'm not a business person. I'm a therapist. My husband is the one who makes sure we stay in business so that we can do what we do -- help people on an emotional/behavioral level to live better lives.

Recently I ventured out with him into a section of society I rarely visit -- a newly formed group of business people meeting to help one another become more successful. "It's not about business," the leader reminded members enthusiastically. "It's about relationships. No self-promotion allowed here. Introduce yourselves to each other, arrange to meet one-on-one. Get to know each other, find out who you like, who you trust. Ask yourself what you can do to help that other person succeed. Then they'll do the same for you." I found the concept exciting. At last! Business with a heart!

The next speaker presented his views on how to be successful. His voice was soft, his style unassuming, his presentation unpolished, even bordering on awkward at times, which rings of authenticity. My kind of guy. As I listened to him, however, I looked around the room. Something was "off," but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. (I'll admit to the possibility of projection -- my perception of others may have been tainted by my personal unease. Remember, I was out of my element here.)

Now, platitudes may be boring because we hear them frequently, but repetition is a teaching tool that helps move information from the conscious part of our minds (short term memory) to the subconscious part (long term memory, therefore more highly influential regarding attitude and behavior). So I didn't fault the speaker there; however, when his bottom line regarding relationships became, "The people you talk to the most must be people who make more money than you do," he lost me. I mean, given the choice, I'd rather cultivate a relationship with the Dalai Lama than with Donald Trump.

I have the honor, and I mean that sincerely, of having been named our city's Small Business Person of the Year back in 2003. I'm quite proud of that, and grateful; however, I immediately jimmied the title around to be "small business" (omitting "person") because there were many others behind the scenes who placed me in position to qualify -- my husband, our small staff, and most importantly the clients who, over the years, have trusted us to help them unravel their psychological snarls. "Business Person" was a hat that did not sit well on my head, yet there it was, part of a uniform I suddenly realized I was being asked to wear.

So I resigned. Retreated to the wings and left my husband to enjoy the spotlight. I established a mentoring program, the purpose of which is to train others in my field to raise their standard of practice by focusing not only on competence but on ethics and professionalism. I believe if your heart is in it, success is inevitable. By "it," however, I mean helping others, not earning money, and that's where I became highly selective in considering candidates for the program. Highly. As in taking the high road, raising the bar. And by "success" I don't mean adding zeros to one's income. I mean (warning: platitude ahead) making the world a better place.

Problem is not many subscribe to my philosophy. Our society flashes dollar signs in gaudish neon that lights the wrong way to success, if you ask me. Too many follow blindly, caring only that along the way there are lots of banks with ATMs, and places to shop for the trappings of wealth. Flashing neon turns me off. I look instead for what can simply be called, "the spark." It can be found in people, in other living creatures, in places, and in ideas. But it isn't found commonly. It is rare.

Ah! There you have it! My ramblings have led me to understand what it was that seemed off to me in that room full of business people. There was no spark. I mean collectively. Had there been, the room would have lit up with it. I genuinely wish the individuals and the group well, and concede that many there make more money than I do. Allow me to fall back on Princess Lea's admonishment to Han Solo of Star Wars fame: If money is all you love, money is all you'll get. Perhaps for some, it's enough,and they consider themselves blessed and give generously to charity (or not), as they seek relationships based realistically on, What's in it for me? I wonder if they ever wonder what Jesus's net worth was.

Of course, his meetings were of a different nature, and he did hang out with fishermen and spend most of his time talking to the downtrodden.

Romance, Royalty, and Reality

2011-04-23T08:58:00.000-07:00

With all the talk about Princess Dianna's legacy, truly her greatest contribution to the world rests in her two sons and, in particular, the grounding she gave them in what we call real life.

Along with her Christian upbringing, perhaps Dianna learned from Buddha, who was born a prince and was so sheltered from reality that when he finally snuck off the palace grounds to explore the real world, he discovered (to his deep consternation)poverty, illness and death. A major religion evolved from his dramatic awakening.

Dianna was, in her day, quick to become the beautiful princess envied by none who observed her with a keen eye. A loveless marriage, overpowering in-laws who did not accept or approve of her, and the public humiliation of ongoing blatant betrayal by Charles all moved her along the path that molded her into a devoted mother determined to raise her boys her way -- as best she could. She also became a doer of good deeds in terms of the hundreds of charities she supported by her actions, not mere words. The world is indeed a better place for her existence.

Now there is Kate, who is dearly and obviously loved truly by her Prince Charming... the manifestation of his mother's dreams for him. I love that William gave her Dianna's engagement ring. What an honor for her, and for him a gesture with deep meaning. It seems that the high price paid by Dianne covered lessons actually learned by the monarchy, which allowed William to live in the real (albeit privileged) world, where he is marrying for love after earning a university degree, serving in the military complete with the risks of a rescue pilot,and sowing his fair share of wild oats. Kate's compassionate understanding of his struggles with his inescapable position in life speak volumes about her own character.

This prince and princess have had the best and the worst of examples set for them by their parents' marriages. Charles and Dianna's relationship has taught them how not to do it. Kate's commoner parents have offered inspiration and hope. William and Kate have not turned a blind eye or deaf ear, and their relationship has passed the test of time. They have both deep emotion and high intelligence going for them -- plus what Dianna never had: the freedom to be themselves and to reject the stuffy and senseless traditions that history has taught us have reaped misery for so many. This prince and princess face the future forewarned and forearmed.

The rest of us can benefit by the incredible potential and dare I say natural inclination these two have to follow in Dianna's footsteps, together using their position in life to make the world a better place. My hope for them is that they will continue on the path, the high road if you will, they have chosen for themselves, balancing their personal and private lives on the same tightrope that tripped and tethered Dianne, then took her life.

There is no such thing as too much publicity when it comes to these two, although my read on this is that William will take the bull (pun intended) by the horns when it comes to the media, to do what Charles did not -- protect the love of his life with fierceness and ferocity, as well as live his life and someday rule his country with backbone as well as dignity.

I don't care what Kate's wedding dress looks like or how much the event is costing. I care about their happiness. They've earned it, they deserve it, they exude it and the rest of us can and should let it wash over us like soft, foamy waves. Those of us who choose to can love their love and let our admiration for them inspire us to greater heights.

Horse Sense & Dollars Too

2011-04-13T14:33:00.000-07:00

In my thirties I owned four horses, a sensible number based on the size of my family at the time. We lived in the country and had a pasture and stables for them at the back of our property. There were plenty of tractor roads to ride and, in fact, I could (and often did) jump on my mare to ride her bareback to the little grocery store with its wooden floor, just down the way from our house. My three teenage sons threw hay and shoveled up the… used hay residuals. It was ideal. Then came a divorce, and I moved back to the city after finding good homes for Happy, Blaze, Spinner and Cronie. I gave them away along with saddles, blankets, bridles and so on, to people I knew would care for them. It didn’t occur to me to sell the horses or the tack. They were a part of my life that was dear to me, and money doesn’t mix well with matters of the heart.

In my sixties I decided I needed one -- just one -- horse in my life again. Brandi’s former owner let me keep her for a month to be sure we were a good fit, after which I paid the asking price without trying to strike a bargain. My horse was worth every cent and it would have been an insult to her to attempt to pay less. We were a good match. I was rusty and she was… somewhat… patient with me as I relearned the ropes -- not aiming to show her or to compete, but to simply have fun together. From the beginning I’ve never thought of her as my horse. I think of myself as her person, and I feel privileged.

I first boarded her a 30-minute drive from my house, where we enjoyed the wonderful indoor arena but had no roads to ride. Eventually I moved her to a new place, thirty minutes in the opposite direction. She hated it. We had a great indoor arena but she had no shelter in her pasture, which was very large but butted up against a rural highway. There were roads to ride; however, I didn’t have the confidence to take her out alone, and the other boarders were… less than friendly. Which made them “nice” compared to the owners of the place, who were… not nice. Brandi has no papers, and I have no patience for snobbery. So I moved Brandi to the place where she is currently boarded.

She loves it, and has adjusted to several moves from one pasture to another. No covered arena, but roads to ride and I have the confidence now to go out alone. Layout of the land favors dressage, and long term friendships among other boarders is rather cliquish, but Brandi and I pretty much keep to ourselves to avoid the games many people play (usually without enough insight to realize how obvious they are).

Now comes the dilemma: my cost of boarding her has gone from $130 per month in 2003 to $350 and rising. My choices are to pay even more when the exact increase is soon announced, to avoid the stress of moving her to another facility (she doesn’t like change), to take her off pellets and let her waste away slowly on hay that she doesn’t digest well, or to find someone who wants her and can afford to pay the ever-expanding expenses. I see this as a lose/lose/lose situation.

Our business overhead and living expenses have increased too; however, my husband and I haven’t raised the fee for our services in the past five years, because we are loyal to our clients and want to remain affordable to them when they need our help. That’s called putting people first and money second, not a popular philosophy in today’s economy, though many pay it lip service. If we had increased our fee at the same rate as Brandi’s maintenance has increased over the past 8 years, we would be charging close to $300 a session instead of $180. But then we are in the people business, not the horse business.

The people boarding Brandi for me are in the horse business. I am not. Therein lies the problem. I am her person, and responsible for making the sometimes hard decisions that affect her. Right now as I mull over options my heart is hurting, just a little, not a lot. I’m not a barrel racer, but I feel like I’m over the proverbial barrel. Sometimes that comes with accepting reality.

I suppose business is what it’s all about these days, with success being measured by dollar signs. That’s why Frank and I make such a great team. My primary motivation is to help people, he is the one who sees to it that we can stay in business in order for that to happen. There are others in our field who charge more and may earn income comparable to ours, but they earn their pay by helping fewer clients than we do. They have other jobs and multiple income streams, rather than dedicating themselves solely to the practice of hypnotherapy which is, after all, a profession. In my opinion, at least. Similar to being a dentist. (Would you choose one to do a root canal if he was in his office two days a week, selling vitamins door-to-door three days a week, and mowing lawns on the weekends? ) Yes, food must be put on the table. But from my point of view “following your passion” means devoting yourself to that which is dear to you, even if it means eating more beans and less steak.

Life Gives Us Pause

2011-03-26T07:44:00.000-07:00

In a peer level support group called Rising Tide. where we learned and practiced a positive approach to solving life's problems, a new man joined us and announced dejectedly that he was considering suicide. Why? Because he had just learned he was HIV positive. The words "be positive" were, to him, a death sentence. The rest of us in the group modified our speech pattern to say instead, "Be optimistic," but apart from that the good news is he turned his attitude around and ended up moving to Arizona with his devoted partner, to live on a ranch where he looked forward to planting a vegetable garden.

Scientific evidence has recently indicated that our outlook on life is half hereditary and half learned. If we are born with a tendency to be unhappy and are raised by adults who are basically pessimistic, we have a strong tendency to view life's glass as half empty. If we are born with a propensity for happiness and raised by adults who are basically optimistic, that same glass seems to us half full. In either case, our parents are to blame. Pretty cool, yeah? Only as a humorous aside. The fact is, we need to accept personal responsibility and use our past as a stepping stone, not as a place to squat for the rest of our lives.

The reason I say "blame" even in the second scenario, is because being too much of an optimist is just as much a problem as being too pessimistic. Anything carried to an extreme is nature out of balance, and when our nature is out of balance, we are out of sync with the world around us. Life (with a capital el) has a life (small el) of its own, and if Life is zigging when we are zagging, we and Life step on each others' toes. Not a graceful move on any dance floor.

I often teach my clients to use the auxiliary word just to minimize a problem they have blown out of proper proportion. A person with a phobia, arachnophobia, for example (an unrealistic fear of even harmless spiders) can learn to say when encountering a Daddy Long Legs, "Oh, it's just a spider," and remain calm as opposed to shrieking OH MY GOD IT'S A SPIDER and running from the room in a fit of terror. This technique allows them to function more realistically in normal society.

Imagine, however, a person who lives in the mountains saying, "Oh, it's just a bear trap." This nonchalance might increase their odds of stepping in it (both literally and metaphorically speaking).

There is a choice that rests somewhere between optimism and pessimism, and that is called realism. We have the potential to view stimuli without attaching an evaluation skewed by either heredity or conditioning. It isn't good, it isn't bad, it just is. The solution rests in the pause between whatever "it" is, and our reaction. An automatic reaction overpowers the pause by happening instantaneously, without consideration. We revert to our default mode and, by doing so repeatedly, we reinforce that tendency. We become more positive, or more negative.

I treated a client recently who was very right brain predominant... extremely "dreamy" with no grounding in intellectual processing. She asked me how she could correct the imbalance and I told her some ways by which she could develop her intellect. "That sounds AWFUL" was her reply. "I don't want to DO that." Of course not. It would have meant leaving her comfort zone to explore unknown territory. The other option, I explained, would be to accept her nature, and nurture her gift of imagination. This might doom one to the category of eccentric but, in my book, there are worse labels.

Years ago I treated an engineer who presented with Globus Hystericus -- an imaginary lump in his throat. He met with success but later reverted, so I offered to record a hypnosis session that he could play repeatedly to reinforce the solution to his problem. "Great idea," he said," but don't use any of that drifty, dreamy stuff. I prefer pragmatism." Of course he did, I explained, adding, "If this issue could be resolved with logic, you would have done it yourself. To fix it, you're going to have to step out of left brain now and then."

Left brain, right brain, optimism, pessimism -- it's all good. What's bad is getting stuck in one or the other. We need to be able to travel through our mind, explore, and adapt to new terrain when we come across it. An honest assessment of an undesirable event (such as the recent tsunami in Japan) is more appropriate than thinking or saying something seemingly positive. "Think of all those who survived," for example. Not an appropriate comment if talking with those who lost loved ones. One of the worst things to say to a person with clinical depression is, "Snap out of it! Be positive!" It's the equivalent of asking a man without legs, to walk. So in social interaction we must take the circumstances and needs of others into account, and perhaps override our default mode to temporarily adopt a more helpful stance. Don't offer a potato chip (because you happen to have one handy) to someone dying of thirst.

The tsunami and clinical depression are extremes that I use to make a point, which is that we are social beings and when we interact, it isn't just about us. It's about others as well. It's true that others who are negative can drag us down. It's also true that others who are positive can lift us up; and sometimes either of those is precisely what we need in order to bring balance into our own lives. We can lead others by example, but we can't drag them from their internal storm into our sunny meadow filled with wildflowers. Sometimes we have to step out of our comfort zone to meet them in theirs, then guide them if they are willing to follow, understanding they may only move partway.

This means --for the eternal optimist as well as the proverbial pessimist -- abandoning the fear of viewing Life realistically. Life gives us Pause (with a capital P) precisely so that we can choose an action or reaction appropriate to time and circumstance rather than simply using the one we like best and practice most.

The same way we can remember that our opinion is just our opinion, not fact; which is why differing opinions can both be right -- or wrong. But that's a blog for another day.

When Is "Me First" a Good Thing?

2011-03-17T08:05:00.000-07:00

I admire Freud for his enormous contribution to the science of human behavior; however, in studying the man himself, there's no denying the dude was pretty messed up! For one thing, he couldn't see past his own fixation on sex. For another, his views were far from objective. Every woman suffers from penis envy? Only a man, and particularly one fixated on sex, could come up with such a ludicrous theory. I mean if I saw a group of horse owners being led around by their horses instead of vice versa, I wouldn't envy them, or want to own one of those horses myself.

Now Carl Jung -- there was a guy who got it together when he learned all he could from Freud, then outgrew the teacher. They became close friends, close enough that Jung was not blinded by the halo effect (a tendency to idealize an individual, exaggerating their good qualities and denying their flaws). He once asked Freud why, with his enormous body of knowledge and undeniable analytical prowess, didn't the man mend his own mental/emotional fences. This would have, of course, called for a second party trained in objective analysis, and Freud's reply was that he could not put at risk his stature in the psychiatric community by admitting to psychological imperfections. Jung split -- not schizophrenically speaking, but hitting the road -- leaving Freud feeling betrayed by his favorite student, who then went on to develop his own school of thought.

In terms of raising children, for example, Jung writes that if there is something we wish to change in a child, we should begin by examining it to see if it may be something we need to first change in ourselves. (Integration of the Personality, 1939) This is an interesting concept that preceded the contemporary self-help movement. Additionally, whereas Freud maintained that humans consist primarily of ugly and evil complexities that must be sorted through with professional help and put in order before one can function effectively in life, Jung believed in our basic goodness as a starting point for psychological tweaking.

The truth is, it's much easier to look at/listen to/help with someone else's problems, than to examine our own. "Physician, heal thyself" is easy enough in terms of pills, potions and patches; but matters of the psyche are different. They come with their own societal stigma and can be more easily overlooked (repressed/suppressed). I happen to believe that every good therapist has a good therapist -- holding up a mirror, encouraging self-examination and offering objective evaluation that leads to putting one's own ducks in a row. I am willing to wager, however, that few therapists share my philosophy. I know some who really need professional help -- but can't see that forest for the trees. Sorry for the mixed metaphors. It's just what I do. Causes no harm, unless a reader is anal retentive -- in which case I've already apologized.

The trend today is "coaching," which allows people to make a living helping others become successful in one context or another. So much easier to hand a soldier a gun and order him into battle, than to get one's own hands dirty and risk one's own life. Yes, there are coaches who have been there, done that; however, there are many who have not. They've read about war, heard about war, and can talk about war, but where are their medals? Far too many, when the going got rough, turned tail (between legs) and ran -- right to the sidelines where it's safer, easier (and more lucrative) to spur others on than to fight the good fight oneself in a business environment that has turned ugly. At the other end of the spectrum, of course, is the person so self-involved that no one else matters. But wait, can't these two be one and the same? The person who "helps others" only as a means to an end (helping oneself)?

A helper's high can be as blinding to the helper as the halo effect is to the helped -- when others adore someone for their attention without looking for authenticity and without realizing it's easier for helpers to bask in the light than to turn an honest eye toward themselves. I personally know coaches who have earned their scars, having actually seen success from the inside out. I also know some who have not even come close enough to success to see it with binoculars. They purport to lead others to a place they've never, themselves, been.

I came across this Confucius quote years back while studying all the major religions of the world: "When you have faults, do not fear to abandon them." This may mean a willingness to work through your own pain, not simply talking someone else through theirs. Confucius was a wise guy, and I don't mean that colloquially. Nowhere in any of the religions or cultures that I've studied has it been said, "If you have faults, ignore them and make a living fixing others."

So do I practice what I preach? You bet. I am a good therapist who has a good therapist. When I treat clients I come from a history that includes keen awareness of my personal problems and personal solutions -- and professional help. When my husband and I teach success, we teach what has actually worked for us and what has not. We've earned our scars and a few medals too. Oh, one more thing: You won't find us neat and clean and calling out from the sidelines. We're still in the trenches -- not because we need to be, but because that's where the action is. We're a part of it, not apart from it.

No Kidding Around About Parenting

2011-03-05T12:03:00.000-08:00

Why do moms get such a bum rap, as the lingo used to go in old time gangster movies. I mean, you've seen it dozens of times. Think TV comedy series. Phone rings. Handsome actor frowns and says, "It's my mom. Don't answer it." Laughter. The audience relates. Think dramatic movie. Aging actress in a moment of angst frantically removes all pictures of her daughter from the wall. Nervous laughter. Audience relates. Think Shakespeare. Okay, I was never really into Shakespeare so I can't pull up a specific example, but even sweet William had a mother so I'm sure she shows up somewhere in his works.

And when was the last time a husband said to his wife, "You're just like your mother," to have her smile and said "Oh, thank you, Honey!" Hug, hug.

Try these on for size:

Do we HAVE to invite your mother?
Why can't YOU just call my mother?
Can you BELIEVE what your mother has done now?
Oh, no, not my mother AGAIN?
Sorry, you KNOW how mothers are, right?

I think I have it figured out. In the wild, generally speaking, the father, well, he fathers... and heads out to... father with another female, never to be seen again. The mother sticks around to raise the young and take the flak when the young become old enough to bite back and say, "Hey, I'm outta here!" So maybe moms are more in the picture when it comes to creative portrayal because... they're more in the picture in real life. Generally speaking.

Sticking with the metaphor of animals in nature, consider the young. They wriggle their way out of the womb into the big wide world, nurse when mom allows it and romp about looking adorable, nap in the sun with mom looking out for predators, and then let's say she teaches them to become predators, and off they go to, uhhh, find their own meals, until they are big enough and strong enough and cocky enough to flash mom their backsides as they kick dust in her face and leap and dart off to live their own lives. There, I've said it.

But wait, there's more. Time passes and if hungry mom and her hungry offspring happen upon the same available carcass in the brush, do they hug warmly and settle down to share? Oh hell no. It's tooth and nail, and maybe to the death. With the younger of the two most likely emerging as the victor.

Well, I don't know about you but I'm a mom and I'm sure feeling like crap right about now.

Oh. Wait. We're not animals in the wild! That's right! We're civilized! And THAT'S why our lives are not as simple or as predictable as theirs. When it comes to one generation finding a way to coexist with another generation, we are called upon to overcome our animal instincts, have our dust ups now and then but get over them, put up with each others' shortcomings, and do the best we can to play nice even when we're tempted to either head for the hills or go in for the kill. We're not animals. We stick around. We may bitch about it, but isn't this precisely why we have the vocabulary that animals don't?

I'm not saying it's easy. In fact I'm saying it's not. Why? Because at some evolutionary level of our being we are still in tune with... the call of the wild. It's the muted voice that reminds us when the going gets tough we always have the option of turning tail and running. I've done it myself, so I know of which I speak. For most of us, somewhere tucked away in our subconscious is the memory of those early days when life was good. And simple. And easy. And we want that back! THAT'S what we think we're running to (illusion) when we run away from reality.

However. Most of us procreate and the saga repeats itself with us in the opposite role. We shake our heads like a bear coming out of the water with trout 'tween teeth wondering how the heck it got all wet. We wonder, How the heck did I get here, I was there last time I looked! We experience the same confusion, the same frustration, the same disappointments and feeling of betrayal that we left behind us in our youth for others to gnaw on while we ate high on life's hog. "This wasn't supposed to happen to me," we whine, reliving our sacrifices and struggles in attempting to do our very best at parenting. Yet happen it did and does, unless you're the exception that proves the rule.

Well, as a mother I submit that if you're a father, just be glad you're not a mother. You're not the brunt of jokes, which leaves you free to laugh louder at them than the females (who may find them humorous until they reach that stage of life known as labor and delivery). As a father you can see cleverness in a movie title such as "Throw Mama From the Train," and if you're married you can be grateful to your wife for remembering your mother's birthday for you every year.

Even my own family makes fun of me, a little like Nora's kids do to her on Brothers and Sisters. Their kids are still little. Their day will come. When it does, Nora will sympathize, empathize, offer uninvited advice to be met by rolling eyes, and the audience will have a good laugh. I laugh too, because sometimes that's what you gotta do to keep from crying.

Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't trade motherhood for anything in the world, and I say that with all sincerity. I'm not complaining. I'm just saying... parenting is the toughest job in the world and you never, ever, ever get it right. It's a good idea to remember that whether you're a mom, a dad, a daughter, or a son. If your moment of truth hasn't smacked you in the kisser yet, don't go peeking around any corners.

I'm just sayin'...

Odd Advice About Relationships

2011-03-03T06:54:00.000-08:00

I admit it. I have a crush on the Dalai Lama. I like his smile, the twinkle in his eye, his humility, and his honesty. If you've ever lost an investment, your purse or wallet, something or someone you love, imagine losing your country! Yet the man maintains the spiritual glow that emanates from his love compassion for all of mankind. I once asked my husband, "If you had your choice between sitting down and having a conversation with Jesus or with an alien from another planet, which would you choose?" He's a sci fi afficianado, so his answer was different from mine. My answer today would be in the form of a question: How 'bout the Dalai Lama?

Not that the Dalai Lama is superior in any way to Jesus or Buddha or Muhammad or any other religious icon. I simply find him more intriguing. His wisdom is often cloaked in humor, accompanied by his laugh that, even in its extreme, has a tone of gentleness about it. I've read many of his books, and often quote or paraphrase him because his philosophy resonates with me. He has proclaimed, for example, that we don't have to like everyone! Oh, thank you, Dalai Lama! My guilt was immediately assuaged.

I tend to dislike people who like themselves too much, who are so full of themselves that there's no room to let others in. This in spite of the fact that I understand intellectually how, often, people who seem to like themselves too much are merely overcompensating superficially for, beneath the surface, not liking themselves enough. Unlike the Dalai Lama I'm afraid I fall short in the compassion department because in an overcrowded world familiarity is frowned upon. We want our relationships fast and easy, and place emphasis more on quantity than quality. Sadly, it's not how well do you know other people, it's how many people do you know? Worse yet, while the knowing of another should be a reward in itself, the bottom line seems to be What's in it for me? How can this person be of use to me? In most cases there is neither time nor incentive to navigate the complexities of human behavior for an accurate analysis of a particular individual. First impression equals lasting impression. Move on. Relationships require energy. Invest wisely.

I also dislike people who habitually lie. It's impossible to have a meaningful relationship with someone who is not being honest with you, because one blatant, obvious lie pushes a button inside us that flashes like a lighthouse warning ships they are nearing land. If we pay heed, we keep our distance. If we ignore the warning, we risk a wreck. Without constant vigilance, a lie can draw us into dangerous waters. Why? Because in many cases we want to believe! This burdens us with what is called an inner conflict. To be...lieve, or not to be...lieve? Accepting is easier than rejecting, the way swallowing food is easier than throwing it up. Are social lies okay? Uhhh, judgment call. I suppose "I like your hat" does no damage if said in passing, the way flailing about in a wading pool poses less threat than flailing about in shark infested waters. Circumstances must be considered, and a tiny untruth might be the sugar coating on a pill that makes it easier to swallow in order to feel better somehow. Milton Erickson, a psychiatrist who specialized in clinical hypnosis with phenomenal success for nearly 50 years, told "therapeutic lies." I can imagine the Dalai Lama himself availing himself of... shall we say diplomacy... from time to time.

The fact is, we're all flawed. If known well enough even the Dalai Lama might, I imagine, disappoint from time to time. This is why heroes are best worshipped from afar. Up too close and the chinks in their armor are distracting. In too tight and we might find that armor hard and cold. My advice is to choose your heroes carefully, then keep them at arm's length. Allow them to bask in the illusion of perfection. As for closer relationships, here's a bit of odd advice: If flaws are simply annoying, move on. Why bother? If flaws are hurtful (to the psyche), our instinct is to run, but I recommend sticking around long enough to identify the lesson there for the learning. You won't find the answers in the back of the book, or even studying that other person. You'll find them within yourself. And when you do, you'll be a wiser and a better person.

Years ago a ten-year-old boy made the news because he donated a kidney to his father. A TV reporter asked, "Wasn't that painful?" and he replied, "Why are people so afraid of a little pain?" When it comes to close relationships, if you aren't brave enough to take the bad with the good, that's on you not on the other person. Love isn't for sissies. If it seems to you that it's more trouble than it's worth, think about the Dalai Lama. He may not like everyone, but he understands and exudes love, which happens at a soul level, beneath the layers of superficiality. Peel away enough layers and theoretically there's something about everyone to love. The question is, do you choose to take the time and make the effort to find it, connect with it, and accept that even love can never be perfect?

Why I Lived a Lie for Six Stressful Months

2011-02-19T18:49:00.000-08:00

I was in the process of earning my doctorate degree in clinical hypnosis (DCH), at the same time seeing clients and dealing with a houseful of teenagers (most of whom were throw-away kids with nowhere else to live).

The degree program typically covered a span of two years, but when I received a letter saying, “Congratulations! You’ve completed all of the required subjects for your degree,” I was elated and somewhat surprised, thinking Gee, that time went by fast! and I began announcing to friends, “I’ve done it! I’ve earned my doctorate!”

When I contacted the Institute to find out about the graduation ceremony, however, I was told that I now needed to navigate x number of elective subjects! I had only completed half the program! To this day I can remember the feelings of utter dismay and embarrassment. How could I have been so naive? My only excuse is that life was hectic, and it was easy enough to lose track of time and details. It would have been really awkward running around trying to remember who I had bragged to prematurely in order to recant, but I was secretly horrified about having unintentionally misrepresented my academic status.

I asked the classic question that has saved my... backside... soooo many times: How can I fix this? Answer: I promoted my secretary from part time to full time, asked my husband and the teens to run our household, and -- except for seeing clients -- I dedicated every waking moment to study and research (which culminated in more than 500 pages of written material and, I might add, nearly perfect marks!) In order to live up to the image I had been presenting, I completed the year’s worth of study in six months.

I believe that action should support truth, even if it takes time, effort and sacrifice to get there! I see and hear others playing fast and loose with words in sales and self-promotion, but that's their choice, not mine. If truth is tweaked to sound good with no actual substance, well, it isn't truth, is it?

Call me old fashioned.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

2011-02-16T20:52:00.000-08:00

This is not about the "old" movie of the same caged bird title. I'm sure I saw it in a theater back in the day (when popcorn cost a quarter), but to be honest I couldn't begin to tell you what the film was about, or even whether or not I enjoyed it. I find the words a catchy phrase though, which has been tippy-toeing across my consciousness for a few weeks now.

As a psychologist I've studied dream analysis and am not a proponent of Freud's outdated theory that the meaning of symbols is universal. Rather, a tree may mean one thing to one person, and something entirely different to another. So if you were to have recurring dreams around the symbol of a tree or trees, in order to understand the underpinnings of your dream the question becomes why? Why trees? What do trees mean to you?

My question is also why? Of all the words in all the dictionaries (to play on another phrase from another old movie) why have these words recently invaded the privacy of my mental processing? What do they mean to me?

Cage brings zoos to mind, and zoos used to depress me. Poor animals, I thought in the light of youthful idealism, denied their freedom, robbed of their right to live a natural life. When genius-type Marilyn Vos Savant commented on this subject, however, she made the point that animals in the wild live short, often stressful lives, and typically die painful if not violent deaths. "When cared for by humans they are protected, fed, bathed, medicated when necessary, and even provided mates. Which life would you prefer?"

Seven years ago I retired from clinical practice and revelled in the privacy of my comfortable home, where my office was mine alone and I had the luxury of working near a window with a naturalistic view complete with greenery, flowers, a pool, waterfall, squirrels on the ground and a zillion birds in the trees. They were free and I was the one caged. But by choice. And I believe that in my heart I outsang them!

The door of my cage was always open, and not long ago I ventured out, came out of retirement, and found that the bigger, wider world holds some allure of its own. I'm reconnecting with friends, reaching out more as a volunteer in the community, and of course seeing clients once again. It means more mix-n-match instead of Levi's, stylish shoes more than bare feet or dusty cowboy boots, make up on my face like it or not, and... meetings...

Meetings are not my favorite thing. Agendas, protocol, smiling, nodding, asking, answering, agreeing, disagreeing, explaining, pretending, being honest, speaking out, shutting up, and never, ever... yawning. I am not a natural up-and-on person, but I can fake it when I have to, and I do, understanding the necessity of social graces. The lines, however, become blurred. I've left my beloved cage but is this living free? No, it's living civilized. I can do it. I can. I can.

Why? What makes me so sure I can navigate this world that is in such sharp contrast to the sanctuary I call home? Again the therapeutic question why and the answer is: because the door to my cage is always open, and I can fly back in as easily as I fly out, whenever I so choose. My freedom rests in the realization that the privacy of my office always awaits me, window and all, the squirrels and twittering birds ever abound, and I can -- at any time of night or day --step back in, kick off my shoes, scrub my face, slip into my jeans, settle into my soft swivel chair, open the window, take a deep breath and... sing... sing... sing!

What's In the Hat? You Decide

2011-02-04T10:02:00.001-08:00

Many years ago (I've discovered as I age, this phrase appears more and more in my speech and writing), when I deplaned during a brief layover in Denver, I left my favorite book on my aisle seat. When I returned, it was gone. I told myself, "I hope whoever picked up my book, appreciates it." I could have been upset, angry even, but in forming a philosophy of life, it's wise to find one that helps you feel better, not worse.

More recently I gave away something special -- to someone who was special to me at the time. It was a hat my father wore to SF Giants games, and he was privileged to have the brim autographed by then Manager, Dusty Baker. The person I gave it to was an avid Giants fan long enough to know who Dusty Baker is. He was grateful and gracious in response to my gift, and fully understanding my feelings toward my father. He promised me the hat would be treasured as a family heirloom and would be handed down to his son, also a genuine Giants fan.

Then something happened. I spoke a truth as I believed it, and it wasn't what he wanted to hear. He took offense. "Perception is reality," he said to me, in justifying his emotionally charged reaction. What I did not say next (trying not to escalate our disagreement) is, "Your perception is your reality; my perception is my reality." The fact is, a person's perception is not universal reality, or unilaterally real, though some of us are arrogant enough to think so about our own.

His family is stable and rooted in their community, so I felt my father's hat had found a good home. Since he and I have parted ways, however, there's no way for me to be sure this is the case; but the fact is I believe the hat will be where it is meant to be, whether he keeps it, sells it on E-bay, or throws it away. And if there is any truth to the theory that loved ones on a higher plane hold influence over people and events on this plane, my daddy will keep an eye on his hat if it matters to him. Which it may not. I mean, in the final analysis, it's just a hat.

"Just" is a word I encourage clients to use to minimize an unpleasant person or event, to help them keep matters in perspective. I could, of course, become emotionally embroiled enough to consider the giving away of this hat as a -- now -- personal loss. OH MY GOD I'VE LOST MY FATHER'S HAT! I choose, however, to remember it is just a hat, and changes in what was at one time (in my perception) a warm and caring friendship, are just part of life. People change. Circumstances change. Someone wise once said "The only thing in life of which we can be certain is change."

Yes, I was caught off guard by this one, as is often the case, and in retrospect I can see that my trust was misplaced; but I have an intellectual understanding of the dynamics at play, and I am reconciled to the reality of the situation. This is just a relationship gone awry, certainly not a matter of life and death. To quote Charles Darwin (as I have in the past), "It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the ones most responsive to change."

I'm cool with change. Over the years I've even made it my friend. It is a friend I can trust. And I do. If my father is now capable of feeling anything, I believe he is feeling proud of me for taking the high road. And he is feeling loved -- regardless of what becomes of his hat.

On Again Off Again

2011-01-30T12:26:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I look around at my house and think, "Oh, its so... outdated." I start to get dressed but nothing looks good or feels right. Caller ID tells me a stranger is calling and I have to answer it because it might be business, but I don't really care that much. I eat, doesn't matter what. I feel... off my oats, as horse people say. It's not that things seem wrong, they just don't seem... quite right.

I am a huge believer in Life -- with a capital L. I practice what I teach in classes and to clients... that despite our own hopes and desires and goals and dreams, there is a greater Plan -- with a capital P -- I'm not a big Bible person but there is certainly wisdom to be found there, such as in Jeremiah 29:11 where we can read in the King James version, "For I know the thoughts that I think toward you. Thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you an expected end," and in the New International Version, "For I know the plans I have for you. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future." It's all good.

However, Taoism teaches in all good there is bad and in all bad there is good, and these messages from disparate cultures reconcile when you look not at but into them. If in your belief system God is good, then the Devil is bad, and both are at play in our lives, like it or not. I personally prefer to believe that on the path of Life, moving in the right direction is good. When we step off that path to head in the wrong direction, it can get... bad -- to varying degree.

When you're feeling "not quite right," this is Life letting you know you need to look around you, reassess your decisions and reorient yourself. Regardless of the best intentions, none of us travels our path alone, and our interactions with others affect us, sometimes for the good, sometimes not, and often without our realizing it. Until we get that feeling... the whisper that is Life saying... "Wrong..."

Our awareness isn't always instantaneous. There might be a hint of unease that we ignore, even more than once. Like a breeze that seems harmless -- until red flags start fluttering, then flapping fast and furious saying "Look at me! Look at me!" Unfortunately, these are easier to see in retrospect than at the time you are caught up in a relationship with someone who isn't being open, honest and honorable. Life is about change. Sometimes even something that starts out right, can turn wrong. This is Life keeping us on our toes.

But we pride ourselves on using good judgment, so we stubbornly hold on when the wiser option is to let go. Sooner or later though the relationship cracks or snaps or shudders and crashes into disintegrate parts that cannot be put back together again with any semblance of sanity. This too is part of the Plan... the part that sooner or later gets us back on track, back heading in the right direction, back ON our oats. Ahhh.... yes....

When this happens to me I look around at my house and find it charming and homey. It doesn't matter what I wear, I feel like I could sashay on any runway. When I answer the phone it's with a smile that can be heard, and my tummy feels fine with any food or no food at all. This is Life saying to me, "Don't be too hard on yourself, mistakes are part of the Plan. You've learned from yours. Good job. Welcome back."

An Exciting (I Think) Announcement

2011-01-21T20:49:00.002-08:00

In the seventies, while earning a degree in psychology, I found myself being held back by my hatred of math. Statistics was a required class, and I couldn’t bring myself to study. If I tried to wing my way through it (as I had with Algebra and Geometry in high school), I knew my GPA would suffer – a price I wasn’t willing to pay. I went to Dr. Irving Roy, a local psychologist, and asked him to use clinical hypnosis to help me move past my mental block.

With just one session I found myself eagerly attacking assignments, studying at every opportunity (including reading my text book while I soaked in the tub), and asking for extra help in order to gain a clear understanding of the course. Not only did I earn an A in the class, but when our instructor diagrammed the results of our final exam on the board, there was one grade in the 98th percentile -- surprisingly, mine. Need I say that I was unequivocally sold on the power of hypnotherapy?

Upon graduation, however, I married; and when my first child was born a year-and-a-half later, I dedicated myself to being a stay-at-home mom. Circumstances eventfully led me in a different direction -- toward a 20-year career as a legal secretary. When the time came for another change, I revisited my love of psychology and eventually earned my PhD, augmenting an interim doctorate degree in Clinical Hypnosis. I opened the first Evergreen office in 1992, my husband joined me in the practice in 2000, and in 2003 I was named Stockton’s Small Business Person of the Year. I immediately modified that title to reflect on our business, rather than on myself as an individual.

I loved helping clients, and the business flourished. A look at the bigger picture of hypnotherapy, however, disturbed me. I saw a growing number of schools of hypnosis “certifying” anyone and everyone who paid the registration fee, regardless of their actual prowess. I saw too many people practicing with little, no, or poor quality training, with no sense of professionalism, and with questionable ethics. (Hobbyists, dilettantes, and part-timers, I feel, are a disservice to the discipline.) In short, I watched the bar gradually being lowered -- until it reached a level where I decided to turn my focus from helping clients, to mentoring other hypnotherapists who wanted to follow in our footsteps to achieve the same level of success we experience, meeting the same standards we have set for ourselves. Mentoring was not a money-making endeavor for me, but my attempt to raise the bar, one practitioner at a time. This remained my area of focus until I co-authored a book dear to my heart, Charming Children, after which in January 2011 I chose to return to directly applying my training and skills in the clinical setting.

This is the long way around to my exciting (I think) announcement -- which is that I have officially come out of what might be termed semi-retirement. I am once again practicing psychology within the context of hypnotherapy, and am helping clients to the best of my abiity.

Let's Talk Politics!

2011-01-17T14:02:00.000-08:00

Move over, Shirley McLain, I’m going out on a limb to discuss politics. Please hang in there with me; you may be in for some surprises.

Sarah Palin caught my attention and earned my admiration when she landed like a meteorite upon our national scene, as a presidential running mate. Though highly impressed by Barack Obama’s spectacular speech at the 2003 Democratic convention I, as an ardent supporter of our military and a believer that experience trumps charisma, sided with John McCain. Not an easy choice. Although I preferred his straight talk and spontaneity to Obama’s impressive rhetoric tempered by his reliance on teleprompters, I was also concerned about MCain’s advancing age, which became more apparent as the campaign wore on. (It is because I admire McCain that I was somewhat relieved when he lost. I’d rather see him survive as a Senator than be done in by the pressures of a higher office.) As for Sarah, I found her delightfully refreshing in an arena dominated by starched and stuffed shirts.

Although I feel extremely proud of our country for advancing a non-white to our highest office, I am less than favorably impressed by President Obama’s performance to date. All else aside, what will stick forever in my craw is the blatant public disrespect he showed Senator McCain with his totally uncalled for the campaign’s over John, I won remark. No way to treat an American hero, whether you’re in the oval office or sitting at the right hand of God, for that matter. It was so far beneath a sitting president that it spoke volumes (to me) about his character.

As for Sarah, I have moved from awestruck to objective observation. It does not bother me that she is folksy as opposed to refined, and feisty as opposed to diplomatic. What does bother me is that these traits that once felt to me like a breath of fresh air are beginning to feel forced. Come on Sarah, you can do better.

Recently she has come under fire (sorry) for using the same warlike metaphors that others in both parties have used unabashedly, and for releasing a televised statement that many feel was unnecessary and demonstrative of her poor judgment. Please. Her goal was not to heal the nation. It was to defend herself. A human instinct. If she had not released her statement, most of these critics would be whining, “Why isn’t Sarah speaking up? Sure proof of her guilt!” The fact is the media has from the get go laid in wait to pounce upon her like vultures circling red meat. (As for the infamous Katie Couric interview, anyone who knows anything about editing knows a person can be made to look either foolish or brilliant, depending on who's doing the cut-and-paste job.)

Celebrities have piled on Sarah to snipe, and the tackier the better. Joy Behar of The View exemplifies this with petty tirades and asides so ongoing they’ve become monotonous. When Sarah’s first book came out Joy muttered, “She didn’t even write it.” Stupid is perhaps an adjective better applied to Joy than to Sarah; along with one of Joy’s own favorites… bitch. For “new material” she stooped low enough to attack Crystal Palin for advocating teen abstinence and appearing on Dancing with the Stars. Joy, like other Sarah haters, states her opinions as though they are fact. Does The View pay her extra for being bitter and mean spirited?

My oldest son shudders at the sound of Sarah Palin’s name, and we literally cannot carry on a conversation about her without his face turning an angry red. On the other hand his daughter adores the woman and in August when I sent her a calendar from Alaska with twelve months of Sarah, you would have thought I’d sent her twelve gold nuggets! The thing is, I don’t believe that anything anyone says or does will budge either my son or my granddaughter from their opposing positions. They are entrenched in their respective convictions, which makes me smile as only a loving mother/grandmother can.

Personally I like Sarah. Her persona is more in sync with my personality than is Obama’s. Yet I can and do give the president credit when he shines in the spotlight of a prepared speech such as the one at the recent memorial service in Arizona. And I can and do feel disappointment in Sarah when I suspect her of toying with the public primarily to sell a book. Do I think she will run for high office in 2012? No, I do not. Despite the fact that she is not a graduate of some elite ivy-walled university, I consider her an intelligent woman, and certainly smart enough to realize that the power of the media (adamantly against her) outweighs the power of the tea party (commoners who relate to her). She knows that, at least as things now stand, she cannot win. If she did run, would I vote for her? Maybe, maybe not. I voted for her as VP because, as backup to McCain, I found her no less qualified to run our country (surrounded by a carefully sculpted administration) than Biden (who, by the way, has made as many political gaffs as has Sarah, though they are not as widely publicized).

In my opinion (which I realize is not fact), Sarah Palin has found her niche as a high profile cheerleader for her team, earning big bucks in the process. More power to her. As for Barack Obama, I believe that if he decides to implement his campaign promise to unite rather than divide us, and to act in the interest of his country rather than pushing his own agenda, the man will be unbeatable in 2012. He stands tall, smart and handsome at a pivotal place in history. Let's see what, in the end, he does with that.

Will I vote for him? Maybe, maybe not. I’m more interested in his actions than his words, and one small thing I’d like to see is a body language adjustment. Check it out next time he’s on TV. His head is almost always tilted upward, like someone reading through bifocals. Of course this can be considered “keeping his chin up” or “looking down his nose,” depending on interpretation. I recommend an open mind… view it as worthy of note, and watch for larger movements from him that indicate a deep seated shift in one direction or the other – toward arrogance or humility.

Politics can be both inspiring and infuriating. As a follower, I feel compelled to point out that we who watch from the comfort of our living rooms see only what the media wants us to see. They act as censors and relay to us only what supports their agenda. A person or event covered in one context can bear little or no resemblance to the same person or event covered in another. Unless we see or hear something firsthand, what reaches us is always tainted. When we pass it on, even we modify information based on our own perceptions. This is the nature of cummincation.

To borrow from the wisdom of Zen: If a master points upward in answering a question, we must not mistake the finger being pointed, for the moon being pointed out.

The Loves of My Life

2011-01-14T12:32:00.000-08:00

I've never been a regular viewer of the Oprah show, but I do admire the way she so generously invests her money in improving/enhancing the lives of others. I also like the fact that she makes no bones about being wealthy. She is not a pretentios person. Neither does she sugarcoat her personal history or her character flaws. She seems honest and humble, two worthy qualities that are too rare.

I did catch one show years back when she walked out on stage wearing a long skirt and the oddest ... things... on her feet I'd ever seen. "Ugs," she explained to the audience, and I assumed that was short for ugly. "Incredibly comfortable," she went on. "Totally dreamy." Sales of the boots, of course, exploded. (Dare I say I now own a pair? And LOVE them!)

Trust me, I'm no Oprah. But there are some things other than my ugs that I LOVE, and who knows, you may want to give one or two of these a try:

I LOVE lavender-scented epsom salt. My tub has spa jets so I can't use anything bubbly, but epsom salt is an awesome addition to my bath water. This is the year I turn 70 and I'm pretty active for an almost-70-year-old, so I'm no stranger to aches and pains. After a soak I feel ten years younger. No kidding. And the entire house smells like lavender, which is relaxing in itself.

I LOVE watching little kids perform in front of an audience. If you don't have a child, grandchild, niece, nephew, friend or neighbor's kid inviting you to a show they're in, invite yourself. Sure, parking usually sucks and some audience members take doting over their darlings to a crazy height, but that's part of the fun! If some of them have toddlers with runny noses squaking during the performance, so be it! These are budding young stars just waiting in the wings for their own time to shine. Smile, smile, smile, until your cheeks hurt. THAT's what it's all about!

I LOVE heavy whipping cream, unwhipped. I manage my weight by ljmiting my carbs rather than counting calories. (It works for me.) And as it happens heavy whipping cream has zero carbs. If I catch myself feeling hungry or craving something sweet (both of which are unusual), I have a cup of decaf coffee with heavy cream and Splenda. It's filling and delicious and a harmless self-indulgence that's great served hot or over ice. Mmm...mm.

I LOVE the little 3-1/2 x 4 inch tablet my daughter gave me lat year. It's cover is brown metal, with a silhouette of a horse in white. It is held closed by a small silver pen. I keep it on my coffee table, and use it every morning to list the things I want to do on a given day, lining through each item as I complete it. Yes, I have a desktop computer, a laptop, and a Blackberry. I know they each have a place to list tasks and a program to organize them. Not my style. The little tablet looks cute in its place, feels good in my hand, (I call it my palm pilot) and reminds me of my daughter every time I use it.

I LOVE to hear my cell phone ring. I adore John Denver, I adore Jennifer Lind (http://www.jenniferlind.net/ ), but I couldn't use any of their songs as my "ring" because the intros were all too long before arriving at voices. So I found a track on my Horses of the Wind CD that begins with the sound of wind blowing through a canyon, then the sound of an eagel's call, then, best of all, the sound of a wild horse neighing. Sometimes I phone myself, just to hear those sounds. Sigh...

I LOVE heroes. Not the sandwiches, but the individuals in my life that have inspired me, and allowed me to worship them from afar. Hero worship doesn't work well up close because everyone has flaws and some of them are best left unnoticed from a distance. I can pick anyone apart and put anyone down, but doing so takes me down as well. Placing someone on a pedestal means looking up to them. Hero worship (healthyy hero worship) is... uplifiting.

I LOVE the musical Les Mis. The lyrics are... well, they defy description. They are amazing, on more levels than can be named. I have seen the production three times on the stage, and have enjoyed outtakes from it on our DVD periodically over many years. I never tire of it. It tugs at my heartstrings every time. There will never, can never be a another musical to equal it. Like the tiny bubble in beautiful blown glass, it does have a tiny glitch though (in my opinion). There are two women in love with the male lead, and it has always bothered me that his true love is the weakling, while the strong, gutsy one perishes with only his passing appreciation directed her way. Just as well, I suppose. He's a bit of a wimp himself.

I LOVE really good wine. It spoils you for the just okay stuff. Enough said?

Today's Economy - More or Less

2011-01-10T12:36:00.000-08:00

Never thought I'd thank my parents for not letting me have everything I wanted, yet grateful I am, in retrospect. I rarely shop, couldn't care less about styles, trends or fads, and in today's economy I (oddly) find it fun to think in terms of what I can do without. This harkens back to the way I was raised and, as an adult, to my enjoyment of camping and backpacking. With a lighter load to carry, a hiker is more mobile, more agile, and more enveloped by a wonderful sense of freedom.

Most people today are held captive though, in light of an ailing economy -- by marketers trying harder than ever to make a living -- which relies essentially on transferring funds from your budget into theirs. Consumers are accustomed to having it all (or at least having what it seems everyone else has). This is much more fun than doing without, and so they mindlessly buy into the action -- the transfer of funds. If there isn't enough money, they run up their credit cards and/or work even harder to make more money. This allows everyone to maintain their comfortable-as-ever lifestyle, even though it's the marketers who are profiting, and the public that is being duped into running themselves ragged, trying to make ends meet.

I like to say: Remember, even if you win the rat race, you're still a rat.

On some jobs multi tasking is a must, but it isn't the way the brain functions at its best. On the subject of brains, imagine a brain surgeon, who has trained assistants. Why? So that (s)he can focus on the one, single, most important task at hand. A brain surgeon trying to do everything at once would demonstrate how doing more does not equal doing what's best. Lives depend on a brain surgeon not multi tasking. It's how they become successful, and make big bucks in the process. In less pressured positions, however, some of us create stress, by confusing quantity of our tasks with quality, buying into the myth that we must always and forever earn more and spend more and give more and have more.

Stress does not equal success, which is known to be harmful to our health. Some runners in the rat race are so caught up that they don't, perhaps can't, stop to view their lifestyle objectively. They either (a) don't notice they are looking older than their years, downing pills or potions to mask aches and pains, holding weight around their middle due to cortisol (stress-related), sleeping poorly, and working way too hard at relationships that should free-flow, or (b) they don't care. An ongoing stream of new purchases distracts them from the true measure of success - good health. Without it, what is life worth?

Marketing masterminds are like movie makers. Their goal is to draw others into whatever it is they're promoting, and to influence folks to buy it (or buy into it). They use with the public many of the same techniques that are used on the big screen, which means most people are being influenced continually, without even realizing it. These are the shoppers and buyers who believe they must have whatever it is that promoters are selling, and the followers who believe they must think, feel and behave in a particular way.

There are two ways to watch a movie. Most commonly people relax, mentally and emotionally melding into what is happening on the screen. A part of them knows (on a conscious level) that none of it is real, but they're willing to play along and pretend (subconsciously) to not only "buy" it, but to be right in the middle of it all. If this is you, when the bad guy has set a trap for the good guy, it's all you can do to keep from shouting, "Watch out!" When the leading lady has her heart broken, you feel it -- more or less, depending on how much of a romantic you are by nature.

The other way is to watch a movie as a professional critic would -- remain alert, intellectually noticing every detail of the production, carefully considering the storyline, analyzing techniques and evaluating results. Not as much fun, but applied to daily life, a mindset worth adopting.
Viewers are either in or out of a light state of hypnosis. When in, they are in-fluenced by the film. Its message, whether obvious or subtle, changes the way they think, feel, and perhaps even behave. When out, they walk out and get on with their life apart from the influence of some far removed money-making mogul.

Children are especially vulnerable to influence. This is why they want everything they see or hear about. They then do the best they can to influence parents to buy it for them, using techniques that, whether obvious or not, almost always work! Especially with harried parents who confuse indulgence with love. Not only are our children generally over stimulated, they're also over burdened -- by materialism. As soon as the newness of a this wears off, they move right along to wanting a that. Round and round go the laps on the well worn track.

And we wonder why everyone is so stressed out.

So what do these concepts have to do with you? Without leaving your couch, I challenge you to try staying out of societal hypnosis. Take back control of your thoughts, feelings, behavior and budget. Try thinking in terms of what you can do without. There'll be more money in your coffer when you give less of it away to marketers, and in this day and age more money can equal less stress -- which means a better health, a longer life, and a wonderful sense of freedom along the path .

Some of What I Learned in 2010 (So Far)

2010-12-28T16:10:00.000-08:00

That no matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to be in more than one place at a time.

That no matter how careful you are, there will always be someone who takes what you say or do the wrong way.

That expecting life to make sense makes no sense at all.

That something as fleeting as a sigh, a word, glance, a touch, can change your life forever. For better or worse.

That sinking down is easier, faster, and more common than rising up.

That the hardest part of finishing a job is starting it.

That even though animals can’t put words to it, they often know more about loyalty than humans.

That time doesn’t heal all wounds, but you can decide to let an injury stop you in your tracks, or simply slow you down.

That we should never make a promise if keeping it depends on someone else’s behavior.

That letting go is sometimes harder than holding on.

That it’s easier for older people to understand young people than for young people to understand their elders.

That sometimes the fastest way to make someone really angry is to be right.

That if you want a hug from someone sometimes you just gotta give them one.

That having a hero in your life is important, even though all hero worship is largely fantasy.

That love has more to do with what another person needs, than what you have to offer.

That sometimes it helps to clear things up, but sometimes it’s best to let things be blurry. The trick is knowing when to do what.

That fixing something doesn’t always mean it’s going to stay fixed. Sometimes you have to fix it over and over and over again.

That “Knowledge is power” and “Ignorance is bliss” are separate but equal truths.

That certainty is stupidity dressed up in party clothes. Wisdom is never being sure of anything.

That too much of a good thing can be bad, but sometimes too much of a bad thing is pretty good too.

Fitting In and Standing Out

2010-12-24T11:06:00.000-08:00

Relationships are complicated. Correction: meaningful relationships are complicated. Meaningless relationships are simple. Consider what we used to call the one-night-stand (today known as “hooking up”). This consists of one set of hormones bumping uglies with another set of hormones, after which everyone moves on without a backward glance. If one party stops to think about the interaction or starts to feel something for the other person, complexities begin to brew. The one who cares the least wins, the win who cares the most, most likely loses.

Now remove sex from the equation and consider parent/child relationships, which - typically - rest upon the very foundation of caring. It’s a given. Or should be. The basic variables are: who cares the most, who cares the least, and who or what is cared about.

When my daughter was small I was sitting beside her where she was nestled in her bed, talking about something or other that was of concern to her. “Don’t frown,” I said to her, gently rubbing the place between her eyebrows. “If you do, you’ll grow up to have wrinkles here, like mine.” “But, Mommy,” she replied, “I want to be just like you when I grow up.” That changed, of course, with time. Why? Because humans are herding animals.

Think about horses. They run together in the wild, and individual safety depends on fitting in with the others. A predator’s attention is always drawn to the one among the group that “stands out” by being different somehow… smaller, slower, more erratic, less attentive, a different color, or perhaps the same color but with different markings. When children are small, yes, they want to be just like those responsible for protecting them -- their parents. It’s instinct. But when they leave the home and go to school, dynamics change. Faint stirrings of logic begin to set in, bringing with them the latent realization that teachers and parents are older and less likely to last as protectors. Safety now shifts to fitting in with their peers. As the new group of allies forms, in order to separate itself from the group that was once in control, it rebels, revolts, and redirects its allegiance to members of its own generation.

As parents, we want our children to succeed, which at its core means to be psychologically safe. Most commonly we want them to follow in our footsteps, or to pursue a path we’ve chosen for them based of our years of experience. We know the way! We know the whys and wherefores. Some will do as we desire (or dictate). It’s an easier life for them because we’ve cleared the way. Furthermore, when Fireman Fred’s son becomes Fireman Frank, Dad’s life choices are validated by his son’s replication. If Dad has instead lauded the police force and his little boy grows up to become Officer Alex, the message is still that father knows best, and everyone is happy with that. Despite the generation gap, an emotional connection remains intact. It's win/win... fitting in with both parents and peers. Nancy becomes a nurse just like her mother, but under that crisp, white uniform are racy tottoos that impress her friends.

But what about the maverick? The one who knows the dangers but decides to dart off in an entirely different direction than the one with arrows pointing toward it and footprints clearly leading the way. Here is where humans differ from the four legged creatures of the earth. We are, at least theoretically, more highly evolved. A horse, a cow, a giraffe, a zebra leaving the herd to go his or her own way doesn’t look back. Doesn’t stop to think or start to feel. And doesn’t care, therefore doesn't return in time to say, “Look what I’ve become. Look what I’ve made of myself. Look at me now that I’m my own person. Look at me. And show me you love me -- even though I‘m not who or what or how you may want me to be.”

Yes, they yanked your control over them out of your hands, and perhaps left you wondering where you went wrong. But isn’t good parenting about eventually relinquishing control? As long as they’re doing nothing illegal or unethical, choosing for themselves something different from what you would have chosen for them doesn’t mean they -- or you -- have made a mistake, it simply means they chose a harder path. And perhaps for that they deserve some credit, not denigration or rejection.

When they come back it’s not because you don’t matter to them. It’s because you do. If you don’t hand over the love it takes (with no strings attahed) to fill that empty spot they’ve shown you, they’ll go away again, maybe for good. They care, you care, but everybody loses. Remember: loving an adult child means making their individuality more important to you than your control. This is one of the things that marks the distinction between a good parent and a bad -- and sad -- one.

Humans care. I’ve seen it with my own eyes… youngsters who have grown into adults apart from the herd (family), and come back yearning for approval. They want to be accepted not as one that fits in, but as one that stands out… by choice. This is when the question a parent must answer is “Do you want a lasting relationship? Are you willing to think, and feel, and care -- not about yourself and whether or not your hopes and dreams for them have been fulfilled -- but about this person standing before you, who hunted down their own hopes, domesticated their own dreams, and is here to show you that little empty place in their heart than can only be filled by your acceptance and approval.

Darwin During the Holidays

2010-12-16T21:17:00.000-08:00

My favorite part of Christmas has always been finding just the right present(s) for the people I care about. Surprising my kids when they were little (by putting unexpected but highly hoped for toys under the tree), impressing them as grownups by personalizing my selections for each of them.

Shopping (or even making something by hand) isn’t as much fun as it used to be, though. My sons and their wives have all made good money for years, and they tend to buy whatever they want, whenever they want it. It has become harder and harder for me to get a genuine rise out of them at Christmas.

My son-in-law is younger and it took awhile for him to reach roughly the same point. It was always fun to surprise him and my stay-at-home-full-time-mother daughter with something I knew they wanted but couldn’t afford; but now they’re also in a better financial condition and do without very little. Even their kids seem to have two or three of everything.

What makes buying presents for my grandchildren and great grandchildren still relatively easy, however, is that I carry out a theme, which is… horsies, of course! I keep an eye out all year long to find unique items that reflect their love of horses (for which, I admit, I am largely responsible).

This year I have taken a huge leap. I have announced that I am only giving gifts to the little ones. Guess what. No one seems to care. Except me. It makes me sad. I feel as though I am abandoning a natural talent I’ve cultivated for years, and denying myself a wonderful source of pleasure watching others open their packages from me. But it does take the pressure off at a time when I truly do need to lower my stress level. Not that I’m having an easy time of it, because I am constantly fighting the urge to pick up this or that for one person or another, and stick twenty bucks in a card for someone else; but basically life changes and we must adapt. In my book The Rising Tide Model for Self-improvement I quote Charles Darwin: “It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the ones most responsive to change.”

Frank and I asked others years ago not to give us presents. We have run out of room on our walls to hang things, on our flat surfaces to set things, and in our closets and drawers to stuff things. Our home runneth over and we are at a point where we are passing things on (or sticking them in the attic because we don’t have the heart to toss them -- When the time comes our kids will deal with them appropriately.) We no longer buy for each other on special occasions either. Simply stated there’s nothing we want or need, other than each other and for our loved ones to be healthy and happy.

Well, there is something else: World peace and an end to hunger and homelessness. If you ever come across those available to the public, please let us know. We’ll gladly rush right out with our checkbook.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

A Touching Tale of Random Creativity

2010-12-05T19:44:00.000-08:00

Now follow this if you can. My daughter-in-law's sister's husband's sister lives in Petersburg, Alaska. On a recent trip there Carla met me on the rustic dock with her seventeen-year-old son Ben, who used a laptop to show me photographs he's taken depicting the life of a commercial fishing family. We only had an hour or so to visit, but we made the most of it while sitting beneath a graying sky, breathing in the brisk salt air.

When Carla learned I am a hypnotherapist, she was as excited about that as I was about Ben's impressive pictures of Alaska. She had been reading about clinical hypnosis and wishing she could use it to deal with some multilayered issues. "E-mail me," I said as we hugged goodbye. "Tell me what's going on, I'll get back to you if I have questions, then I'll record a session for you and send it on a CD." She did and I did, assuring her she had already paid for my services with the mouthwatering home-smoked salmon she gave us, wrapped for travel.

That was three months ago. Other than hearing from her how much she appreciated my help, we lost touch until she e-mailed a few days ago saying she had mailed a package to me. "A random piece of creativity," she called the gift she was sending. I was like a kid waiting for Christmas, and especially excited because part of the problem addressed on her personalized CD was her sense of sorrow over the fading away of her creative nature. Along with the recorded session I tailored from the information she sent, I had included subliminal suggestions specifically to help revive her creativity.

In the box I found Styrofoam beans protecting another box, in which there was an interestingly shaped shiny clear glass bottle... partially filled with the course black sand found on the shores of Petersburg. In the sand there were tiny treasures Carla had collected while beach combing -- several seashells, a tiny piece of coral, part of a young crab's leg shell, the red cap off a little tube 0f some sort, a little girl's pink hair clip, a tiny toy, a goldish ring, a piece of colored glass, and so on. Most importantly, there was a green marble. Marbles are rare finds, Carla's note told me, and she had come across this one on September 8th, the day my newest granddaughter was born. It's olive-green color made her think of the baby -- named Olivia. Carla had baked the sand to dry and sterilize it, and thought how much enjoyment I would have discovering the marble for myself each time I turned the bottle (sealed with a button and dangling bead) this way and that to expose the significant little greeen treasure that rolls around hidden in the dark sand.

Wow.

The result of Carla's "random creativity" now sits on the windowsill of my kitchen (coincidentally decorated in an Alaskan theme). Sunlight shines in through the subtly decorated bottle daily, reminding me to take a moment to play. And I do, smiling each time I find there what I'm looking for, fantasizing about how much fun it will be to share the experience with my little Olivia when she is old enough.

In the package from Carla was also a page she had composed entitled, "Tides." The first paragraph reads, "Many people know some basic types of tides; there are spring tides and neap tides and lunar tides. They know of high tides and low tides, flood tides and ebb tides, and some even have met a riptide or two. At certain times in the summer come the krill tides, when millions of tiny krill wash up on the beach. They don't make the news the way a whale would that washes up. I've never actually seen a whale tide, but I am among the lucky few who have seen the button and decorative cap tides, the hair clip and comb tides, the little plastic toy tides, and sometimes the very rare marble tide."

Wow again.

What else can I say, other than what a pleasure it was to meet this special lady, how privileged I feel to have played a small part in her life, how impressed I am by her random creativity, how grateful I am for her thoughtfulness and sensitivity, and how touched I am by the unique and very meaningful gift she has sent.

"I Do" And Other Platitudes

2010-11-19T16:51:00.000-08:00

After 35 years my husband and I are getting married again. We’re not renewing our vows, we are getting married again. I haven’t researched it but I’m pretty certain it isn't considered bigamy if you are in two marriages at the same time -- but to the same person.

We have been making our plans for several months now and keeping them secret, which has been such fun! We cuddle by candlelight with a glass of wine, and decide things like the pastor (lined up) and the place (decided). We're still kicking around the date and time, but that of course will require more candelight and cabernet.

Our first and most important decision has been that this time we will definitely not have children.

It isn’t that we don’t love the children we already have, because we love them very much and are very proud of them… how they have chosen to live their lives, and all that they are accomplishing. The reason for our decision is that when we had children, we made our lives all about them. We did our best to raise them to become upstanding adults, and then… they left us… to become upstanding adults.

Of course it’s never that simple. Not like they were all here one day and all gone the next, leaving me with an empty nest in which to rattle around. When my first son moved out I recall throwing myself into my husband’s arms, sobbing and saying “I wasn’t done with him yet!” When my second son moved into his own apartment, it was a short distance from our home and I thought he'd always stay close (wrong), but we still had our daughter, who was only four at the time.

That was, I believe, where we ran into trouble. She was the center of our universe. If it is possible to love a child too much, we did. When she left at 18 to join the Air Force and begin a life of her own, I said, “You are not supposed to have a life of your own now! I never said now! I always told you some dayl! Some day you will have a life of your own, I've said. I never used the word now!” My laments fell on deaf ears. She was out the door before I could finish my pathetic plea for more of her. Since then we’ve been the safety net she has fallen into occasionally, which is as it should be; however, what do safety nets do when they aren’t being put to use? They just hang around… feeling useless and unimportant. Until the next time.

So it has taken us years to adjust, and I believe we are finally okay with the current scheme of things. We have young grandchildren we dote on and adore, and an older set who drift in and out (mostly out) of our lives, busily living their own. Frank has his clients and his meetings, I have my quiet, cozy home on a good day and too many irons in the fire on other days (weeks, months). We have a dog, a cat, and a horse… all warm and fuzzy-ish. But most importantly, we have each other.

And now a wedding to plan!

Looking to the future this time is far different from the first time, when our concerns were primarily for our children and teaching them as best we could to tread with caution upon their chosen paths. We’re closer now to the end of our own path, and our long term concerns center on how we will walk it alone when one of us is left without the other, as life usually decrees. Getting married again will help us turn our attention from the others we love, and to focus more on ourelves as newlyweds are entitled to do.

A recent line from the TV series Brothers & Sisters comes to mind. Nora said recently to her two grown daughters (asking her to settle a squabble between them), “No! I don’t have to fix it for you! That’s not my job anymore!” Our relationships with our grown children sometimes catch us with shakier steps and thinner skin, but now I realize I don’t have to fix it with them, as I've tried so hard to do during past squabbles. It’s not my job anymore!

My job is to be in love with Frank, plan our wedding, and this time I won't even have to worry about music, a cake, or who catches the boquet. The first time we got married we knew we wanted to grow old together. This time, we know we are doing exactly that. Where did the last 35 years go? I just don't know...

But sometimes platitudes say it all, like: What’s done is done, it is what it is, and what will be will be.

Talking Body Parts

2010-11-15T10:14:00.000-08:00

If your legs could talk, have you ever wondered what they would say to you if, as a semi-fit woman pushing 70, you (1) sprained a knee and tore a ligament in Alaska, spent a month using a knee brace and a cane, another month having physical therapy three times a week, THEN (2) hopped on a plane to Honolulu to climb to the top of Diamondhead, do several walking tours of the downtown area, a lengthy excursion through the Army Museum, and an exploration of the many decks of the battleship Missouri using multiple ladders to go up and down?

Well, I can tell you what my legs are saying to me, two days home from Hawaii: “What the… were you thinking?” Answer: I was thinking, “I can do this.” So I did. Was it sensible? No. Was it challenging? Yes. Was it easy? No. Was it worth it? Yes.

When my son recently took his family to Waikiki Beach to celebrate his 50th birthday, he invited my husband and me to join them. I no longer “do“ sun, although I was an avid (okay, obsessive) sunbather in my youth, and previous trips we’ve made to the islands have included only a brief stop on Oahu to hop a flight to either Kauai or Molokai (both quieter). So with a week to, uh, relax.., we were more interested in the history of Honolulu than its sun and sea.

This made it an emotional week for us, as my deceased father was career military and Frank is a Viet Nam vet. On the grueling Diamondhead climb my mind was on the many soldiers who had passed there long ago to build and then man the bunkers (that were never used in wartime). The museum surprised me by displaying artifacts that ranged from ancient wars among the islands themselves, to wars being currently fought. The Missouri was impressive on many levels (pun intended), but most particularly as the place where the WWII peace treaty was eventually signed.

We stayed in a luxurious ninth floor beachfront condo ON Waikiki, which was a wonderful place to rest and recuperate between adventures. There were times when I literally could not stand without support, let alone take a step. As I look back on that week, I am honestly amazed at my ability to keep on keeping on -- and no, I did not resort to pain medication (unless a few mai tais count). I literally listened to my legs. We had an unspoken agreement. They would give me their all, if I would give them my attention and push them to but not beyond their physical limitations.

Yes we had a rental car, but we chose to walk one day from the condo over a mile (each way) to Barnes & Noble, leisurely taking in island sights along the way. The manager, Naomi, welcomed us in true Aloha style (a warm smile and kind words), It was worth our time and effort, just to speak with the islanders and tourists there who were interested in our book Charming Children -- How the Relaxation Game Helps Good Parents Raise Great Kids. ( www.CharmingChildrenTheBook.com )

Reflecting the advice we give others in our book, I’ve recorded a CD for my granddaughters Annabella (6) and Evelyn (4), that they listen to nightly since I can’t be with them in person. To cover issues such as biting their nails and taking way too long to eat, the Fabulous Fix It Fairy now visits them at bedtime. They tell me their favorite part is when she waves her magic wand so their ten fingers can all talk to each other and to them. Among other things the fingers say they don’t like being put into the girls’ mouths, but they do like putting healthy food in so the girls can bite, chew chew chew, and swallow it down. They also like to put toys away. And to pet my horse Brandi, when Annabella and Evelyn visit her.

So now my legs and I are talking to each other, happy in our relationship. I have promised not to take them on another… relaxing… vacation for a while, and they’ve promised to support me in my goal to get my right foot into the stirrup painlessly for my first real ride since my injury in Alaska. Which brings to mind something I’ve said nearly 40 years now to my Yoga students, that might be helpful advice for some of you.

“Instead of being upset with your body because it won’t do what it used to do, or all that you want it to do, be grateful to it for what it can do, and for what it does do for you 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, often without your awareness, let alone your appreciation. Take time to be appreciative, because when it feels appreciated, it wants to do an even better job for you.”

We all know that feeling.

How Long Does True Love Last?

2010-10-20T10:07:00.000-07:00

True love lasts a lifetime, and even beyond death -- if some metaphysicians have it right. Not to mention Patrick Swayze's character in the movie Ghost. I personally believe that when love runs deep enough, you leave some of yours behind for others and take some of theirs with you. This is the way I love my family, and most likely the way you love yours.

It's also the way I have loved John Denver, as everyone who knows me, knows. Not just his songs, not just his stage presence, not just his philosophy, not just his public image. I've done my homework well enough to know that he was more than all that. And yes, he was a man of many moods, some of which may have been a bit ugly. If ugly moods affect the love you feel for someone, it isn't love. That's what I say. True love is not for candy asses, as Clint Eastwood would so eloquently put it.

Last night I went to yet another New Christy Minstrels performance. There's no tiring of it, this experience gets better each time. I feel fortunate and blessed to call Jennifer Lind a friend, and through her I met Randy Sparks last summer, the man who helped John Denver make it to the top. It was a pivotal point in my life. Last night I met John's Uncle Dave, who sings with the group. To others it may have seemed I was shaking his hand at that moment, but I wasn't shaking it. I was holding it. I held it as long and as best I could without being silly about it. I hope.

Traditional Yoga teaches that pranic energy (life-force) is absorbed, emitted, and exchanged through the pores of our skin, and primarily through the palms of our hands. I was taking in as much of Dave Deutschendorf's pranic energy as I could, and hoping to leave some of mine with him. No, not just because he is John's uncle, but because he seems a gentle person, modest, a sweet man I'll bet, without being wimpy about it. I looked him in the eye and said to him, "You are the reason I'm here." I then felt compelled to add, "And you have a beautiful voice." A true statement and a simple compliment well deserved.

But wait, there's more. This man was a teacher and student counselor for 38 years. What's not to love? A good teacher doesn't just teach, a good teacher can save lives. Good teachers saved mine

Uncle Dave's voice is nothing like John's. It is his own. Deep and resonant. Warming in its touch. His physical resemblance to John may be subtle to some, but was obvious to me. To have looked into that face that hints of John, to have heard him sing in a voice that John must have grown up hearing, to have held the hand that John must have held countless times... what a thrill for me.

As for the New Christy Minstrels, they're not entertaining an audience. They are touching lives. Every person in that packed house left personally transformed to varying degree. The NCM had us laughing, they had us misting up, they had us chiming in on many olden, golden, familiar favorites. Now, on a personal note, I suppose I can say not only that I met John's Uncle Dave. I sang with him. LOL.

Yes, I got his autograph, but not for myself. I'll give it to my son-in-law who also loves to play the guitar and sing (mostly in the privacy of his own home), and who shares my appreciation of John Denver. What I'm keeping for myself is the memory of what I saw, what I heard, and what I felt last night at the Gallo Theater in Modesto. Another magical evening in the life of one who loves deeply.

A Little Look at My Life as a Landlady

2010-10-16T08:28:00.000-07:00

When our daughter was in her teens, she brought home kids the way many caring souls bring home stray kittens. The kids were her friends in high school who were either homeless, moving around to stay at one person's house awhile and then another's and another's, or in homes that provided less than desirable environments. It started with Louis, whom she met at running camp, brought home on my 50th birthday, and said, "Isn't he cute? Can we keep him?" We did.

His mother was in prison (drugs) and his father was dead (drugs and alcohol). He was being kicked out of his ninth foster home. He had serious issues going on as a result of abuse and abandonment. It was a rough row to hoe because he was anything but a pleasant person, and introduced an element of toxicity into our lives. Our conflict was in exposing our daughter at such close range to someone so volatile, but she was as invested in "saving" him as we were, and although we paid a price, in the long run, to his credit, Louis became stable in his adulthood, a good husband, loving father, and productive member of the community. His mother has found God, is trying sincerely to bring Louis into the fold, and their relationship is actually functional, at long last.

But "back when," Louis brought home Bruce, his best friend. Bruce didn't need us the way Louis did, but Louis needed Bruce, and Bruce brought home Lisa, a friend from Salinas. Our daughter then brought home her best friend, another Jennifer whom we called "Little Jenn" because she was skinny as a rail. All the kids called us Mom and Dad. There were lots of hugs and lots of problems that we tackled during family meetings, which we all hated but damn, they worked.

Little Jenn had her own issues from childhood, which she was addressing in therapy, and although she came to live with us she often visited her little brothers to keep an eye on them. She brought them home one time with tears in her eyes, saying they hadn't eaten and their mother (with substance abuse issues) was not to be found. I made beef stroganoff in my pressure cooker and fed the two boys at my table.

Halfway through the meal their mother showed up, went to the table and proceeded to pick pieces of meat off her sons' plates which she hastily ate. Something like that, you don't forget. To her credit, that was a long time ago and I believe she has cleaned up her act. Has she become a name on my favorite persons list? Uhhh.... no. But more recently when I lost weight and had literally a closet full of clothes that hung on me, guess who I gave them to. Little Jenn, to pass along to her mother, who was divorced, homeless, and not working.

In recent years my daughter lived in Sparks, Nevada, and Little Jenn would occasionally come to visit me. We established a "Mother/Daughter Day" that consisted of watching a movie together, with chips and dip, heartfelt talks, some laughter and some tears. I suppose I was filling in as a mother figure and she was filling in as a daughter figure, but over time events occurred that resulted in miscommunication and a falling out. Although I offered to talk things out and mend that fence, she was not interested and I let it (and her) go.

Back track now to when we were still at the height of our friendship. My mother's house became vacant and Little Jenn's brother and his wife rented it, against my better judgement. I told them I didn't think they could afford it (even though I dropped the rent $50 for them and did not ask for the last month's rent in advance, or a security deposit). I told them the place was old, needed work, and the huge yard required a LOT of maintenance. They LOVED yard work, they told me, and couldn't wait to get started. They also agreed to clean and paint indoors, which they did. There was a huge pile of trash in the back yard which they agreed to dispose of. They took two loads to the dump, and not only left the rest but contributed to it over a period of two years, during which time they did nothing but complain about the house being old and the yard being too big to take care of. Payment of rent was sporadic. Two, three weeks late, half now, half later, etc. In our dealings with them they became so rude and disrespectful that even my husband (with unlimited patience and great people skills) gave up, and we asked our son to take over management so we could remove ourselves from the situation.

The meat eating mother had worked many years in property management and so was well versed in how to live in a house without paying rent, milking the system that looks out for renters, not owners. Knowing this in advance, while Little Jenn and I were still what I thought was close, I expressed my concern that her brother would, in the end, not treat us honorably. She looked me in the eye, her hands on my shoulders, and said, "Mom, I PROMISE you I will not let that happen."

When the time came that it did happen, word came back to me through our daughter that her best friend had long since washed her hands of her brother and his wife, therefore she felt no responsibility to intercede when they lived in the rental without paying their garbage bill for a year (which cost us several hundred dollars), and without paying rent for two months, which cost us a couple of thousand dollars. Interesting thing about promises. They only last until you decide to break them. But, lesson learned.

Now the house is empty, we're working like crazy to do improvements we couldn't do when the tenants were, uhhh... such crappy tenants... because (1) we avoided them as best we could and (2) they didn't communicate with us once they planned to bilk us so we had no way of knowing the sprinklers didn't work, some tile was missing in the kitchen, and the roof needed replacing, not patching. They've moved out, we're dealing with all the junk they've left behind, and on one unexpected encounter with him, when the tenant made a fist and would have hit me if Frank hadn't gotten between us, and threatened, "Wait till you see what I do next," we called the sheriff. A roofer was there at the time to witness this, and there's a report on file. So we'll see where this goes from here.

Bottom line, in a weird way I'm enjoying the process of spiffing up the old place, but my heart hurts when I allow myself to explore the old fashioned, outdated attributes of honesty, integrity, and loyalty. Let alone appreciation. And just when I was recently spiralling downward emotionally, Louis stopped by with a big smile, a warm hug, and a reminder to me that in all bad there is good. Who would have thought that the one kid of all our kids, who gave us the most problems, would end up giving us the most reassurance that it was, indeed worth it. When Louis says on occasion, "I love you," he means it, and I feel it. It feels good.

On Caring, Worrying, and Letting Go

2010-10-09T08:51:00.000-07:00

I don't remember living with my mother until I was six years old, when she married my stepfather and retrieved my sister and me from our grandmother's house. Looking back, my perception is that she never worried about anything except missing one of her soap operas, or spilling a drink. In fact she prided herself on not worrying. Not caring, for that matter. She took great personal satisfaction in being a "tough broad."

I, on the other hand, worry about everything, and care too much. Overcompensation, of course. Basic psychology. However, realizing that at some point I chose to worry and to care, so as not to be like her, gives me the ability to investigate the choice I made when I was young, and rethink it. I understand, for example, that I learned to worry from a woman named Mary, who seemed to me to be a very loving person who worried about everyone she loved. I, therefore, equated love with worry, and preferred Mary's example to my mother's.

At the same time I met Mary, my high school English teacher (the first male role model in my life who was not mean spirited and abusive), introduced to our class the concept of complacency. He spoke out against it of course, and because he was a hero in my eyes, my decision to care/worry was compounded. I chose to worry about not only those I knew and cared about personally, but about the state of the world in its entirety... all matters animate and inanimate. I developed the skill that, at the time, seemed an honorable and appropriate attribute.

Now it drives me nuts, and I've come to realize that I can care without worrying. Furthermore, I can care without being obsessive about it. Wow! Insight! Realization itself, however, isn't what gets the job done. Would that it were that simple. What it takes is vigilance and consistent practice. This means I now notice myself worrying needlessly or caring too much, and I make a concentrated effort to rein myself in. I do it with -- borrowing from psychobabble -- self-talk.

The ones I seem to talk to myself about most are my kids. Using the term kids loosely, since they range in age from 32 to almost 50. I worry about things that challenge them and scare me, mostly involving their physical and emotional safety. I worry about not being able to protect them and. realizing it's no longer my role to do so, I worry that I somehow fell short during the earlier stage of our relationship when it was my role. Enter the ugly monster... guilt.

So I talk to myself about caring, worrying, and feeling guilty. Makes for quite a conversation but at least it isn't about soap operas and whiskey and soda with a twist. I tell myself what I would tell a client, or a close friend, coming to me for advice... an effective communication technique. I tell myself, "You've done the best you could. Give yourself credit for what you did well. Stop berating yourself for falling short of perfection, since no human can be perfect. Your kids are smart and sound and finding their own way in life. You pointed them in the right direction, but you don't get to choose their path or lead the way. Let them go. It's your turn now to focus on your own path, which grows shorter every day."

I've learned that letting go is a process, less like dropping an object and more like trying to get gum off your shoe. So I work at it, and try not to work so hard that it monopolizes my life. Humor helps, so I finish my self talk with a phrase one of my yoga students shared with me years ago. She learned it from her mother in German, but the English translation is: Go with God. But go.

I've also learned that letting go leaves one not empty handed, but free. A wonderful reward for the ongoing effort required. Freedom -- you gotta work at it. And you gotta love it. Without it our lives weigh heavy on the scale of universal balance.

Doctors Deliver the Goods

2010-10-06T19:25:00.000-07:00

I read something interesting on FaceBook recently -- a chiropractor speaking out against the medical field. He wrote, among other things, that women have been “brainwashed” into believing they have to be in a hospital to give birth. He favors home deliveries. My first reaction was to wonder how many times he has given birth, either at home or in a hospital! But I didn't go there. Instead I responded by telling him that two out of three of my children would not be here today if I had not been in the hospital at the time they were born.

My first son weighed 9 lbs 6 ounces which, 50 years ago, was saying a lot -- especially considering my normal weight was 110. The nursing staff called him "the big guy." We delivered his head, but his shoulders were too broad. The doctor had to decide between breaking the baby's clavicle and then resetting it, or giving me an episiotomy that was twice the normal length. He chose the latter, and I'm glad. Then he used forceps, which folded one tiny ear and left a mark on one little cheek, but both were temporary; and thank goodness I was in the hospital!

My second son was more cooperative, and provided no battle stories to tell.

Sixteen years later, however, when my membranes broke and amniotic fluid rushed out, my daughter settled on the umbilical chord and cut off her supply of oxygen. By this time fetal monitors were in use, and we could see that her heartbeat doubled. The fetus was in distress. Emergency c-section -- with an infant resuscitation specialist on hand! I then required a transfusion of three pints of blood, and was comatose for nearly 24 hours. Thank goodness I was in the hospital!

But back to FaceBook. The chiropractor stated that, although most births in the US are in the hospital, our U.S.A. birth mortality rate is "one of the highest in the world." Rather than continue the debate, I chose not to respond by pointing out that, in some parts of the world, birth mortality is so common that many cases are likely not even reported. These are births that take place apart from a medical setting --but not by choice. Not everyone is as fortunate as we are to have opportunities other than “squat, push, and pray,” the third being optional.

Granted, in the majority of cases home deliveries go smoothly, and thank goodness for that. Thank goodness, also, for midwives and doulas, who are trained in assisting. However… let’s not malign the medical doctors whose expertise and hands-on experience, and state-of-the-art equipment qualifiy them to handle unpredictable emergencies that can be life threatening.

I do not agree that women have been “brainwashed” to believe they must be in a hospital to give birth. I believe in this day and age, in this country, most women are well ware of their options, and grateful to have so many of them. Based on my own experience, however, I say “better safe than sorry.” Hospitals aren't my favorite places, but if I'm in labor, that's exactly where I'm heading. Without delay. Other women are welcome to decide for themselves based on their own criteria -- mine is life or death.

In any event, medical professionals looked down their noses at chiropractic for many decades. Now they've come a long way and MD’s and DC’s refer back-and-forth. It disturbed me to see a DC putting down the medical profession. AND I AM A PROPONENT OF CHIROPRACTIC! I feel a wiser strategy would have been to build up the perceived advantages of home births, rather than to tear down the perceived disadvantages of hospital deliveries. And all this opining came from a man... which gave me pause.

This also gives me an opportunity to share, as I have many times, one of my favorite things that my husband has ever said to me. Back when our daughter was born, fathers weren't allowed to attend c-section deliveries. I was brokenhearted. Frank asked me why I was crying and I told him I felt I'd let him down. He said, "Silly. You've just given me a million dollars, and you're crying because you dropped a dime."

And that's just one reason I've kept him these 35 years!

The Most Bizarre E-mail I've Ever Received

2010-09-29T11:10:00.000-07:00

My blog before this one was a heartfelt expression of my thoughts and feelings about a friend named Jane, an unfortunate victim of a stroke. Last week we received an invitation to meet with some of her friends, but we declined because we had already planned to make the 1-1/2-hour drive to visit Jane herself, just a day before the gathering. After our visit I received an e-mail from the woman who had invited us, asking me how our visit with Jane went. I responded politely, and suggested she might like to read my blog. She then replied to me with the most bizarre e-mail I've ever received. It appears here, with her name deleted.

From: .... [mailto:...@yahoo.com] Sent: Tuesday, September 28, 2010 10:03 PMTo: Ginny LucasSubject: Re: Jane

Jesus Christ, oh God, you were not there for any of this. What a jackass you are. Ha ha I read your blog. We have been there from day one trying to help our Jane. Gads, get a grip on yourself you stupid fool and go back there and try to help Jane as I have done since we saved her life thinking she had the flu back on March 24th. She asked for my help & my husband & I gave it, saving her life, following her from hospital to hospital, moving her possessions, answering the calls of her nurses & doctors daily, taking care of her car, her possessions, watching out for Jane. Wow, who are you or what you have to do with Jane we will never know everyone else, tons of people have tried to help her. Your blog is bullshit and you are a fool for writing it about our Jane.

On a personal note, I was first absolutely astonished, and then plain pissed. From the perspective of psychology, I found this an interesting study and a sad display of emotional disturbance. When Frank read it he was appalled. He and I talked about it, and discussed whether or not I should even dignify it with an answer. After careful deliberation, I sent the following to "...."

We’ve known Jane about twenty-five years, but were not in close touch. Two or three times a year one of us would call the other and talk for an hour or so. It was always as though no time at all had passed since the last call. Every few years she would come and stay with us for several days. Everyone in the family enjoyed dropping by to see her.

Had we lived in San Jose and had she called us, we would have done for her exactly what you and your husband did. I find it sad that, instead of feeling grateful that you were in a position to help, and proud of yourself for taking on such a monumental responsibility, and honored to be the people she turned to in need, you are apparently resentful and bitter, and certainly hateful. This boggles my mind. I find it hard to believe that Jane would have a friend of your caliber… arrogant, petty and so vitriolic. Obviously your connection with her isn’t grounded in her love of Buddhism.

I know Jane well enough to know how she would feel about what I’ve written, and how she would feel about what you have written. You are bitching in tone about what an imposition it was to “save her life” and implying that no one else has the right to hurt for her because they didn’t do what you did. How pompous of you.

My husband and I will visit Jane as and when we choose to. And certainly not because you have TOLD us to. Excuse me but who the hell do you think YOU are? We were told by staff that she is not, cannot process mentally, and has little if any recognition of visitors. Based on the tone of your irrational, rude, in fact despicable e-mail, do you think for one second I would place greater value in what you say about her condition, than what they say?

And by the way, touching though it is that you call her “our Jane,” she does not belong to you or to anyone else. Your thinking so, hints of a God complex. Your involvement and long term stress has obviously taken its toll on you. You might want to seriously consider getting professional help.

Don’t bother responding.

We blocked any future e-mail from her, because it goes without saying that you cannot carry on a rational exchange with an irrational person. I was sincere in my suggestion that she seek professional help. Raw emotions can be ugly monsters that raise their head to strike out at others, and if you care about those others, you do what you can to calm them, even if it is after the fact. That's what therapy is all about, and of course the concept of forgiveness, inherent to all major religions. "...." obviously doesn't care about me, which is perfectly fine. I hope she cares enough about herself though, to come to healthy terms with her psychological upheaval.

To mix metaphors, there will be no fence mending between "...." and me. Fence mending takes time and energy, both of which diminish as we grow older. I don't have as much of either, as I used to. I've learned in my old age to save my time and energy for the relationships that are near and dear, and even then I no longer rush in where I'm not wanted, to try to do the job alone. It isn't enough that I care. Others have to care too, if there is to be a fix.

As for "...." the fact is I don't care about her anymore than she cares about me, except to be thankful that there was someone in a position to handle matters for Jane when she could no longer do so herself. I find it regrettable, however, that this person's participation didn't elevate her to a higher place. I wish her well.

And hope to hell her path never crosses mine again.

A Stroke of Genius Named Jane

2010-09-25T07:29:00.000-07:00

I can't stop thinking about my friend Jane. She is in a convalescent hospital following a stroke, and that's all we knew until we visited her recently. We intentionally waited several months from the time of the incident, hoping for improvement and allowing her time to adjust to her new circumstances. I asked myself, in her condition would I want people swarming to my side to see me at my worst?

So now she is apparently at her best, but to say that her best isn't what it used to be is a gross understatement and an insult to the woman I know and love. In my naivete I thought (hoped) that she would be making progress all this time, and that the healing would continue. The hospital staff assured me a few days ago that this is not the case. Jane will live out her days being bathed, dressed, and fed pureed foods, by others.

It seems odd to speak of her in the past tense, but necessary. She was a brilliant woman. An attorney most of her life, but always engaged with life apart from her career. She read voraciously, and anytime she found a topic that caught her interest, she "went there." She investigated it with passion, and if possible she went there literally... travelling to places she had studied, to get to know them firsthand. She would come home running over with stories that braided "way back when" (history) and "then" (her visit) and "now" (her reliving the personal experience) like Dorothy's hair in the Wizard of Oz. Something you can count on. Jane's voice danced across details and her eyes sparkled like spotlights showing her off as the star of the show, and the show was the life she created for herself.

Yet she was keenly interested in the lives of others. When she asked about my scattered family, for example, she always remembered everyone's name, where we left off the last time we spoke of their circumstances, and she genuinely wanted to know more. She asked questions not like an attorney holding interrogatories, but more like a top notch therapist needing to delve deeply enough to gain an understanding. If she could have she would have phoned each one of my kids and grandkids, written to or e-mailed each one of them, visited each one of them, the way she approached every other topic of interest. But of course her time and energy were limited, even though her curiosity and caring were not.

She had the idiosyncrasies not uncommon to geniuses, sometimes viewed by others as flaws. Her glasses were often smudged, her clothes unkempt, her plans disorganized. But those were part of what made Jane... Jane. She had a laugh that still rings in my ears, a wonderful laugh, heartfelt and hearty. She loved to laugh, and laughed a lot.

Now she looks at visitors with no expression on her face, although she does look at her visitors. If her eyes wander off, she somehow brings them back. There's no way of knowing if she can understand what we say to her, and although the staff assured us she can say "yes" and "no," she said nothing while we sat with her, holding her hands. Made no sound. Other than the sound, now and then, of someone trying hard to cry but unable to do even that to her own satisfaction.

If I know anything about Jane, I know she wants desperately... to understand what happened to her, and why, and what she can do to have her life back. But this, of course is speculation. Staff assured me she cannot process mentally. I almost hope that's true. I hope she has no inkling of where she is or why, or even who these people are, holding her hands and holding back their own tears as they try to say the right thing, whatever that means at a time like this. If this is the case, if she has no intellectual awareness, then there is nothing left of Jane there in that wheelchair, except a shell.

And the question I'm left with is whether or not to visit that shell again. I will, at least once more, in time, because my recent visit has left me bleeding at some level where a band aid won't reach. She tried to cry several times throughout our visit, including as we left. I promised her we will be back and I'll keep that promise. Because, I tell myself, shells don't cry. And the next question becomes: do we want to go back, should we, what's the point if we... make her cry? But crying may be all she has left.

Some would say, "It's about you. You visit her to make yourself feel better." But, trust me, seeing her doesn't make me feel better. It hurts. Bad. Maybe what it comes down to is being there to share her suffering. If creating heartache for myself lessens hers, I'm willing to do that. Again, there's no way to know. But if pain is the only place Jane and I can connect, I'll go there for her, rather than leave her there alone.

Alone is a nice place to visit, but no one should ever have to live there. Because that's not living. Not even close.

The Thing About Things

2010-09-21T11:20:00.000-07:00

I know we're not supposed to love "things." Actually, technically, I believe it's okay to love things as long as we're not attached to them. Emotionally, that is, not as in joined at the hip.

And of course we have to take into consideration the definition of love. Is it a feeling that enfolds such qualities as trust and loyalty and commitment, or is it merely a blip that appears on our radar screen regardless of the quality of a relationship? You may know someone who says "I love you" the way others say "God bless you" when a person sneezes. That kind of "I love you" -- forged from shallow habit --sounds good, but it's based on quantity (being said to practically everyone), not quality, as in "What we have is special."

That having been said, let's get back to things. These are some of the things I love, and why:

I love my bathtub. My husband installed it when I retired, so that I could take my luxuriating to a higher level than a mere soak. My tub has adjustable jets that churn the water, and a heating system that keeps the water at a desired temperature regardless of how long I remain emerged. I've had it for seven years now and I suppose I could become blase and simply take it for granted, but I choose to remain appreciative and enthralled.

I love crickets. Not the little critters themselves, but the sound they make rubbing their little legs together in an attempt to find a mate, and announcing the arrival of spring. I've had people tell me their chirping drives them nuts, but to me it's a nighttime lullaby that connects me with nature even as I rest indoors, snug in my soft, warm bed.

I love the first big sip of a cold beer from a frosty bottle, on a hot summer day. Anything after that first sip looses my interest and I may continue drinking the brew to be polite, but I'll never down the last swallow from the bottom of the bottle. By then, it's already over for me. And I don't need another. But that one beer has to be cold, and it has to be in a bottle, not a can or a cup or a glass. Well, maybe a glass, if it's not plastic or styrofoam or cardboard. A glass glass.

I love the thing that happens when my horse and I look into each other's eyes. It doesn't happen with all horses, not even those I "owned" years ago. Just Brandi. It doesn't happen now and then, it happens every time we look at each other. There's a message that passes between us, that can't be put into words. It didn't happen at the onset of our relationship, it simple appeared at some point in time, and took my breath away. It still does.

I love the American Flag. For most of my life I took it for granted and assigned it little value, until I attended my father's burial with full military honors. The flag that draped his casket brought home to me the message that my father, at great personal risk and sacrifice, devoted his life to defending what our flag stands for. Now when I see our flag, I sigh. A deep in-breath fills me with loyalty to my father and gratitude to others like him, and an out breath directs my emotions toward all who have earned and will forever deserve my deep admiration.

I love gardenias. They're very assertive. Even though they have a "what-you-see-is-what-you-get" attitude, you know when one is nearby even if you can't see it. Their fragrance is distinctive, never to be confused with the rose or sweet pea, for example. And they're so self-confident that they don't need to dress up in colors. White does quite nicely, thank you very much. Nothng subtle about a gardenia, or pretentious. It makes itself known unapologetically. It is authentic if it is anything.

Lastly, I love love. It is a warm and fuzzy thing, but also has some rough edges. It isn't for the weak of heart. It can lift you up and it can drop you down. Either way there's no denying it's power. It's what makes life worth living, and even when it's bad, it's good. You simply need to accept that love, like everything else in life, changes. It's a living thing. It can take some lumps, and if they aren't too many and don't come too hard too fast for too long, it can self-heal. It can also fade, which simply means transform itself into something perhaps indiscernible. I don't believe it goes away. It just goes into hiding -- and sometimes stays there, rather than go back to where it is unwanted, unappreciated, or unnurtured.

So the thing about things is that things matter. When we run into trouble, is when they matter too much.

Grandkids Are Great. Animals Are Awesome.

2010-09-13T12:53:00.000-07:00

When I was a child we always had a family dog. The first one I remember was when I lived with my gramma. He was named Boxer. He was old, always dusty, and walked on three legs with the fourth bent permanently up against his ribs after having been hit by a car. When my mother remarried after divorcing my father, my sister and I moved in to live with her and our stepfather, and a succession of dachunds began, but later as a mother myself, our dogs were of various breeds and were joined by cats, hamsters, parakeets, and so on. I've always loved animals of all species, shapes, colors and sizes.

At some point in my forties, and for some reason I still can't identify, I became fixated on seals. Maybe because the seashore is a favorite retreat of mine. But I began to collect pictures of seals, ceramic, stuffed, sandstone, and so on -- seals. This placated me somewhat, but -- I wanted to touch a real seal! And sure enough, on a trip to Sea World, trainers brought a seal out of the water to sit on a platform and I was chosen from the crowd of volunteers to come forward and pet him. I'll always remember that magical moment. His name was Peabody. Touching him, touched me. Some silly (?) need inside me was met that day.

Later it became all about wolves. I had photos of wolves, paintings of wolves, posters of wolves, statues of wolves, and of course soft, stuffed wolves. But I wanted a relationship with a real wolf! I heard of a wolf rescue program in the foothills, and my son drove me to pick out a hybrid to bring home. I chose the runt of the pack, a female I named Albertine. My son brought a male home and named him Mano; but it wasn't long before Mano outgrew my son's back yard, so came to live with his sister. The two of them decimated our huge yard, and proved what we had heard -- that wolves are different from dogs. They were sweet and I loved them, but they lived in their own world. After a year we found a home for them with old friends of ours, where they could be together on a large ocean side ranch south of Ensenada, Mexico. I cried when they left. Mano jumped in the van, tail wagging, and wanted to drive! But Albertine hid behind me and I had to pick her up and put her in. She had been neutered, but we later learned that Mano fathered many pups. I still think of them often, and remember how they loved our back yard, playing in and drinking from our waterfall.

Eagles came next, and the longstanding theme of my bathroom is... eagles. Beautiful wood, glass, ceramic and brass eagles fill the shelves of my greenhouse window. No, I've never owned a real eagle, but here's a cute thing that happened. About a year ago we rescued a pet cockatiel that either got loose or was set free. We bought a cage, taught him to say his new name, and my little granddaughters loved talking to him. Annabella, five at the time, went to school one day and told her teacher excitedly, "My gramma owns an EAGLE!"

Of course there is a special place in my heart for horses, and I can't tell you when that began. I had horses many years ago and have had one more recently for seven years now. Although I don't think of her as "mine." I think of myself as "Brandi's person." When she is gone I'll never have another. I feel toward her the way I feel toward my husband. No one will ever take their place. The memory of them will have to carry me through to the end of my days, if I'm ever to be left without them.

After a knee injury in Alaska, I tried yesterday for the first time to ride. I was able to get into the saddle, but when I tried to place my right foot in the stirrup my knee was having none of it. The "ride" lasted all of 30 seconds, and I was so disappointed. But looking back, what comforts me is reliving the exchange of energy that took place between Brandi and me. There's always something in her eyes that sends a heartfelt message, and yesterday she was particularly patient with me and gave me "love nudges" to boot. I think she was as disappointed as I was, that we didn't get to play.

Aside from the sprained knee, my husband and I have been caught up in a family crisis that has affected us deeply. We're helping each other through it, and our dog (Artax) and cat (Mismatch) have been even more tender and attentive than usual. They seem to sense our sorrow, our sense of injustice and helplessness. As is usually the case with animals, they ask no questions and make no judgments, they simply accept us and do what they can to provide solace. They offer unflinching loyalty that is much needed and much lacking, at this stage of our life. Yeah. As we age, things change. Including the way others think and feel about us, and behave toward us. As my clever little Annabella once said when she was four and broke a crayon, "It's just part of life Gramma." Grandchildren are great. They're irreplacable.

Animals are awesome. They're irreplacable, too.

Once precious grandchildren and special animals have touched your life, even in their absence you can never feel alone. You just have to dig deep enough inside yourself, to where their love lives.

On Injuries, Healing, and Falling Apart

2010-09-09T06:34:00.001-07:00

My daughter's dog Artax was her "practice baby," meaning when he was hers she did everything but put a bonnet on him and wrap him in a baby blanket. When she actually became pregnant, we all knew Artax would not do well in second place, so she gave him to my husband and me. He fit perfectly into our empty nest.

We call ourselves Gramma and Grampa to him, as in "Gramma and Grampa have to leave for awhile but we'll be back." He has severe separation anxiety, and that's a fact. He has a doggie door and goes outside to... take care of business... but otherwise he is indoors and either at my side, in my lap (all 65 lbs. of him), or close at my feet. He sleeps with us, and during the night, if Frank and I happen to move apart, we wake up to find him lying between us, head on pillow. Aside from that, if Frank gets out of bed before me, Artax moves immediately to take over my husband's side of the bed.

One morning Artax lept into bed to be beside me, and pawed at my face as a gesture of affection. Unfortunately I opened my eyes at that very second, and his long, rough toenail went into my eye. In a more alert state I would have blinked instantaneously, which would have let my eyelid provide some protection; but I was still in a groggy state and so an injury was incurred. Two scratch marks from top to bottom across the center of the cornea.

In the three hours we waited for Urgent Care to open, I kept a compress on it and focused on banishing fearful thoughts as they entered my mind. "I'm going to be blind in one eye." "I'm going to need surgery." "I'm going to have to cancel my trip to Alaska." I converted these to, "The body is designed to heal, and healing has already begun." It's great to have training that kicks in when you need it. I used slow, deep breathing to keep myself calm, and Frank used hypnosis with me to reduce the pain.

I was not the least bit angry at Artax, in fact I felt sorry for him. He realized there was a problem that he had had a hand (or paw) in, but smart as dogs are, he of course could not apply any reasoning beyond that. When I came home from seeing the doctor, I had gauze and tape that covered half my face, plus professional assurance that no permanent damage had been done. Artax cuddled up to me with his chin in my lap, but kept his paws to himself. By the time I left for Alaska three days later, I was able to replace the patch with dark glasses, and continue the antibiotic drops on my trip.

It sounds somewhat mild as I write about it now, but Frank and I were both very scared at the time and, no pun intended, I keep a closer eye now on Artax's paws.

There was a time when I would have fallen apart, but as a therapist I've spent years helping clients not fall apart, and on a personal level I've learned from my own past experiences that falling apart is easy, but putting yourself back together again later isn't. Better to avoid that problem, than try to fix it.

Sinking requires no energy or effort, which is why it is part of our nature to wind up in a low place from time to time, whether we wanted to go there or not. Rising up again afterwards is the challenge. Sometimes, some people can't recuperate alone, and the fortunate ones have others who care enough about them to help with the heavy lifting. Sadly, there are also some who, in a low place themselves, can hold us down -- because they like the company and lack the initiative to do anything but settle in and hope you'll do the same.

This is why it is so important to surround yourself with people who help make your life better, and who help you to be a better person (which isn't all about you. It's also about how you treat others). I am fortunate and grateful that for me, there is always Frank. We've been through worse than the Artax incident together, and have grown closer as a result. We have our differences, we have our own highs and lows. but most importantly we have each other. Even when one of us is "gone" (and we're at the age where this thinking is significant), one of us will still have the other, because I have internalized him and he has internalized me, and we are both better persons for it. "Till death do you part" doesn't apply to us. Nothing will ever keep us apart. There is a line from some movie or other, about a wife who has died: "She's gone, but I'm still married to her."

But enough about Frank and me. What comes to mind when I ask myself how I can offer readers something of value to apply in their own lives, is a simple technique that helps when facing a difficult choice: ask yourself, "What, in the long run, is going to let me feel better about myself as a person?" As an example, to be candid, I didn't like my mother and she didn't like me, and there were times when I didn't want to invite her to this or that event. I learned that it always feels better to be inclusive, than exclusive. It lets me feel better about myself. Maybe all those Sunday School classes did some good when I was a kid, after all. Love and foregiveness are somewhere to be found in all religions, though sometimes confined to empty rhetoric rather than actual application.

On a global level, wouldn't it be wonderful if races, cultures and religions could live out the concept of inclusion -- letting others in, accepting them rather than rejecting them because they aren't who or what or how you want them to be? But what are the odds, when there are so many individuals who don't get it.

It's so much easier to settle for a crappy fence, to let it fall apart rather than make the effort to maintain or mend it.

Like Mother, Like Daughter

2010-09-03T09:02:00.000-07:00

My daughter is expecting her third daughter any day now, which means for awhile she won’t be able to walk our firstgrader right up to the classroom door, as in the past. I recently received this “report,” which I found so amusing I asked Jenn’s permission to post it as a blog. The “steps” she describes took place over a period of many days.

My first step was to walk Annabella to the same gate where I will soon be dropping her from my car. I let her lead as I walked behind her to make sure she knows where to go and what to do, etc.　　

If the kids get there early they get to play on the playground until the bell rings, when they line up outside their classroom. So my next step was to, after following her lead, sit and watch her on the playground. I then walked her to line up for class, waiting to watch her walk into the room, and waving goodbye to her.

My next step was to say good-bye to her as she left me to go and drop her back pack at the door to her classroom and head off to the playground alone. Then I watched her play without her knowing it, and followed her to make sure she lined up for class without me.

Next, I said good-bye to her after her back pack drop-off, and stayed in the courtyard across from her classroom where I could still secretly watch her line up. This was to make sure she made it there from the playground alone, as she was supposed to.　

Next step, I followed her to her classroom as I had been doing but I actually left when she went to the playground, hoping she would remember where to go and when, then line up as expected. She did fine.

Today: the BIG step! I took her to the gate where I will be dropping her from my car, stayed there and let her go through the entire routine all by herself. I did watch her from the gate, of course. I saw her walk across the big courtyard without me, like such a big girl, put her backpack down by her classroom door, walk off to the playground, and go to line up when the bell rang. I was so proud! And then I left!　

Part of me wants to call the school to make sure she got to class okay, but I realize this is just me feeling insecure.

It's so hard to let your kids grow up!

On the Subject of Pissing Contests

2010-08-24T12:49:00.000-07:00

Most people entering into a pissing contest are men. It may have something to do with the size of the weapon they brandish -- in this case their ego. If they hear that someone has gone somewhere or done something or acquired something that they consider to be within the territory they have marked as theirs, something in the psyche clicks and the game is on.

In the old days (she said, as though she had dentures to talk around), a man wouldn't dream of taking on a woman in a pissing contest. Wouldn't be gentlemanly. But in this day and age one-upmanship is like driving on the freeway -- chivalry is dead and it's every man -- and woman -- for him/herself.

Women don't typically do pissing contests. They do baby showers. Example:

"I hope you won't be in labor 36 hours, as I was."
"Only 36 hours? I was in labor three days!"
"Well, be grateful for epidurals. I delivered naturally. An 8-lb. baby boy."
"Eight pounds? My baby weighed 10!"
"I delivered in the backseat of a cab! No one to help but the driver!"
"I delivered all alone. No anesthetic. Baby was breach. Took me all night. I had to untangle the cord from around his neck, then bite it to sever it. He was 10 lbs. 4 ounces."

You get the idea. For some reason we women seem to award brownie points for suffering. Then we eat cake with lots of frosting and oooh and ahhh over the presents being opened. Men have a similar points system, comparing scars after a battle. Then they drink beer. If they're lucky.

Most men can butt heads with each other then back off and go to lunch together. Take attorneys, for example, who battle it out in court, but when it's over, it's over. They've done their job. Outside of a professional context, however, oneupmanship cries out for analysis. If your neighbor buys a new car but yours is a more expensive model, why would you bother "dropping" that fact in conversation? Why not just be happy for your neighbor? Answer: insecurity. Yes, women have it too but women typically want to be accepted, whereas men want to be king of the hill. Go figure.

I've never been a very girly girl. I'd rather cut wood and run the chipper in the backyard with Frank than simply serve him ice tea now and then, with a sweet smile. I practiced karate for 12 years back in the days before protective gear was worn. We were trained to execute control. There were no segregated classes then so I often sparred with men. To be honest, it sort of gave me an advantage because they really didn't want to hurt me. Except for one 12-year-old who bopped me in the nose (poor control). I wasn't old enough then to be his mother, but I figured maybe he had an older sister he didn't like? More recently I've seen men and women compete in martial arts. Everybody kicks ass without compunction!

We were expected to compete in tournaments and I did. Have the trophies in the attic to prove it. Don't have the heart to toss them. I'll let my kids do that "when the time comes." The point I'm trying to make though is that I do not enjoy competition and I can remember the exact day I made a conscious decision to avoid it whenever possible. I scored the highest final exam grade in a statistics class, and was embarrassed when the professor announced that. There was another student whom I felt should have had that honor. She thought so too, and was crushed. I felt bad, not good.

Still, it's hard when someone tosses a challenge your way, to turn around and walk off. So I get suckered in sometimes. It happened recently. Afterwards I gave myself a little talking to, and asked myself, "What have I learned?"

Answer: I've learned that, in a pissing contest, when you notice your opponent (yes, it was a man), really grovelling for material no matter how weak, to keep himself in the game no matter how wimpy he may seem, the way to bow out gracefully and put an end to it is to simply -- laugh, and leave.

And blog about it!

Lol!

My Beloved Alaska

2010-08-22T16:13:00.000-07:00

My beloved Alaska flipped on me and landed sunny side up. The natives and most other visitors were ecstatic, but based on past trips I was prepared (and hoping) for extreme weather of another kind. The kind that justifies long johns, waterproof parkas, and thermal socks that cushion your hiking boots. Eventually the weather improved -- gray skies, some rain, a little wind -- all registering " wimpy" by Alaska standards. But hey, when you're in Alaska, you're in Alaska. It can't be bad.

I realize there are thousands of folks who swear by the cruise ship experience, but I'm not one of them. I've always taken the passenger ferry (state marine highway), where you're mixing with mostly Alaskans and very few tourists. It's casual, comfortable, and exposes the face of Alaska without its makeup. College kids (mostly) camp out on the top deck in a protected area equipped with overhead heaters, restrooms and showers. Others opt (as we did) for a cabin with private facilities. Everyone mixes in the dining room, cafeteria, bar, observation room, or deckside on one level or another to watch for wildlife. We spotted eagles, orcas, a pod of seven humpbacks, and even a bear was captured on camera by one passenger. The four-leggeds frequent the shoreline, we learned, to eat the salt grass that grows there.

My first trip to Alaska was close to thirty years ago, my most recent prior to this visit was twenty. Alaska has changed since then. I'm very grateful that I was able to explore, back then, the places where my grandfather was a commercial fisherman and also a gold miner (striking it rich in the Klondike then losing his fortune in the great depression). The trip from which I just returned would not have provided the same sense of personal satisfaction.

In the tiny towns scattered along the inside passage, we learned quickly to duck for cover when cruise ships unloaded literally hundreds of tourists at a time, storming the streets, sidewalks, and businesses. If swept up by the crowd we breathed more secondhand smoke than I like to think about, mostly produced by visitors from other countries who puffed away without apology as they spoke colorful languages such as German, Russian, French, Greek and others unrecognizable. Once the docks were home to just the passenger ferry again, the air cleared and the energy changed. Somewhat.

I had hoped to find again the quaint little cafe in Skagway where I once ate the most delectable liver and onions ever (probably moose), but no such luck. The wooden walkways are now rimmed with gift shop after gift shop after gift shop, many of them selling diamonds, furs and expensive art work. In Juneau we were told that twenty jewelry stores are located along the main street. They, along with most of businesses along the sea route, are owned by the cruise ship companies, putting all but a few local owners out of work or, at best, on someone else's payroll.

Rafting the Mendenhal again was fun... wet and cold but hey, that's what I signed up for. The rowers no longer stop along the bank halfway to serve reindeer sausage and moose juice (cider spiked with bourbon), but at the end of the ride there are crackers and cheese and un-spiked cider -- not to mention souvenirs for sale.

The narrow gauge train now stops short of Whitehorse, Yukon Territory, but goes as far as Carcross. The scenery is still breathtaking and now passengers are also privy to informative and nicely delivered narrative over a decent sound system, and an opportunity to buy -- souvenirs. I can't fault Alaska's inside passage for its trend toward commercialism, which I'm told erupted about eight years ago. Even on the edge of the wilderness, people have to do what they have to do to survive, and that isn't limited to fishing and hunting and braving the elements.

On the passenger ferry we met a family that, fifteen years ago, sold everything they owned to homestead land on Petersburg, where they cleared an area, cut down trees, built their home on the water's edge, and still live -- without electricity. Getting to know them, however briefly, warmed my heart more than the sunshine overhead delighted those around me typically held captive by winter year round.

This is the first time I've left Alaska for home without having to hold back tears. Of course this is the first time Frank was waiting for me when I got here. In thirty-five years we've never been separated for more than one night, and at that no more than three or four times. I had injured my knee on the steep terrain, and was hobbling through the Sacramento airport with a nagging limp. When I saw Frank I shrieked with glee and made a mad run for him. Behind me my daughter-in-law called out, "Oh, yeah! Now your leg's just fine!" :-)

The hurt came back, but I don't care. It's good to be home.

How "Crazy" Is This?

2010-08-07T07:43:00.001-07:00

Enter the lead actors: Ginny, Joanne, Rosalee.

Background: Ginny. Legal secretary by day, yoga instructor by night. Interesting contrast. Divorced mother of two sons. Joanne: divorced, works in an insurance office across the hall from Ginny. Rosalee is the daughter of one of Joanne's coworkers, thereby a friend of Joanne's.

Ginny meets Frank, falls in love, and when they marry, Joanne is there to throw rice, and Rosalee plays the guitar and sings at their wedding, where she meets Ginny's younger half-brother from San Francisco. They develop an interest in each other, but it goes nowhere of significance. He is struggling with his upbringing in a strict military environment, she is struggling with her own childhood issues that included having to choose between her birth mother and her adopted mother.

Ginny and Frank, wrapped up in their own lives, plan a family and have a daughter. Ginny has introduced Joanne to an old male friend, the two have married,and they become godparents. She changes jobs and loses touch with Rosalee, who fades into the background to live a quiet existence centered around her singing, and after five or six years Joanne ends up divorced again. After a few years she and Ginny eventually lose touch.

Twenty-five years go by. Ginny, who has become a semi-recluse, is holding a book signing and discussion of her latest publication, Charming Children - How the Relaxation Game Helps Good Parents Raise Great Kids. As people begin to arrive at Barnes & Noble, she sees in the distance her friend from the past, Joanne. "Did you know I was going to be here?" she asks in amazement as they hug with enthusiasm. "No!" Joanne says. "I just happened to come in to do some shopping!" Ginny is distracted by preparations for her presentation, but comes back moments later to find Joanne talking with another woman.

"Rosalee!" she says, "Oh my God, did you know I was going to be here?" Rosalee says no, but when she saw the poster at the front of the store she wondered if it could be the person she had known years before. She had not expected to see Joanne, who had not expected to see her either, or Ginny! Rosalee asks about Greg and learns he has never married. "Nor have I," she says.

Joanne and Ginny stay for Ginny's presentation, after which the three friends exchange phone numbers and agree to meet for lunch when Ginny returns from Alaska, her next stop on the book tour.

TO BE CONTINUED

Never Give Up, Never Give In. Well, At Least Not Yet.

2010-08-03T06:43:00.000-07:00

I was 35 when my youngest child was born. During that pregnancy, I noticed all sorts of side effects that were new to me since I'd had my youngest son 14 years before. Anytime I asked the doctor why this or why that was happening (becuase it hadn't happened in my earlier pregnancies), he would preceed his answer with, "As we age..." It drove me nuts. "35 isn't that old, for Pete's sake," I'd think.

That was 33 years ago and, pregnancy aside, I notice that with more years under my belt comes more maintenance. For example, I used to just grab my car keys and skedaddle when I wanted to go somewhere. Now I have to throw on a little makeup (which I don't wear around the house), find clothes that are suitable for the public (as opposed to the same mismatched slop-arounds I've worn for three days straight), and do something with my hair (it's usually eather just hanging or pinned in a knot atop my head). Then I have to search for shoes, (I'm always barefooted at home). At this point I look presentable at best, whereas in the good old days I'd leave the house without giving it a second thought, and always look perfectly fine with no effort at all. That's what youth does for you.

Now, once I've worked at an appearance that at least won't scare people, I move to the next phase of leaving home. I search for my car keys. Sometimes they're in my purse but rarely, and even at that I also have trouble finding my purse! Once I have it and my keyes in tow, the search begins for my cell phone. I can't remember where I used it last. So anywhere from 30 to 45 minutes after I've decided to head out, I actually walk through the door. Not looking or feeling like a million bucks, mind you, but passing for human, at least.

In my hay day I'd be out and about having given no thought at all to garnering attention, yet heads would turn. Wolf whistles annoyed me. "Honestly. Men," I'd think. Now if I hear a guy whistle in my direction it's either because my daughter or grown granddaughters are with me, or I look over my shoulder to see who's walking behind me.

Now I have to avoid many of my favorite foods and exercise just to maintain my weight, which is more than I'd like it to be but I'm actually into a smaller size than a few years ago. I used to be able to eat anything and lots of it, and my only exercise was from cleaning my whole house in one day, chasing after my kids, and once in awhile galavanting about. If the galavanting about involved makeup, I'd hit the hay afterwards without washing my face, wake up with a smeared face but still looking ten years younger than my actual age.

Now I have speacial nighttime cleanser. Special cream for undereye puffiness. Special cream for wrinkles, special cream for age spots. Body lotion too, of course, with Q10 for firming. Does all this work? I don't know. But it smells good. If I do it right I go to bed looking and feeling like a greased monkey. I also have sunblock for daytime, and moisturizer of course. Am I religious about this regimen? Alas, no. It's a luxury that I sometimes allow myself, but more often than not just washing my face is a major accomplishment in the morning and at night I fall asleep watching TV and figure I'm doing well just to make it to the bedroom without Frank's support and guidance.

I won't even get started on the assortment of vitamins and other supplements I now ingest. I used to snack on M&M's, but now... it's pill popping and trying to remember to drink lots of water every day. (Trying, of course, implies something short of success.)

And when I do get dressed to go out, can I just throw on something and run? No. My jeans can't be too tight or too loose, and sometimes jeans are no longer appropriate at my age. My shirts have to have sleeves to cover my flabby tricept area, and if there are buttons in front I almost always discard it for an alternate choice because the opening will most certainly gap across my chest area. If I'm em>really getting dolled up, can I wear the spike heels that make legs look shapelier? Oh no. Must wear sensible heels in order to walk safely. (Okay, I'll be honest. Sometimes I still wear the spikes, but only for an event where I know I can literally be on Frank's arm the entire time. I say to him, "Under NO circumstances can you let go of me!"

Sometimes I resent all the effort it takes to try to stay ahead of the years that have accrued, but I make it a point to refute the emotion and replace it with logic. The fact is that the nature of things is to atrophy. Deteriorate. Fall apart. It's a process we cannot stop, but we can slow it down, if we're willing to take the time and put forth the effort.

I could write more on this topic, but I have a few spare moments so I think I'll give myself a mud pack instead. Guess I've shamed myself into it.

Ladies First, Forget the Boy Scouts

2010-07-30T10:40:00.000-07:00

President Obama has now appeared (yet again) on The View. He chose a show, he said, "that Michele watches." Uhhh... okaaay... please tell me you're not buying that. A man in his position is going to use milk toast criteria to influence a stainless steel strategy? Wait, maybe he's simply keen on pleasing his wife in an attempt to compensate for breaking his two-year-old promise to her that he would stop smoking!

He is, if anything, razor sharp when it comes to campaigning, and he is forever campaigning because it's what he does best -- so why would he deviate? No, he chose a venue where (a) he would reach lots of ... women... which is the category showing the greatest decline in supporters and (b) he would be surrounded by... women... most of whom were very obviously predisposed to behave adoringly. At least he is channeling his charm in a different direction than did Bill Clinton!

What do you have on your i-pod? Do you know Lindsay Lohan is in jail? Do you know who Snookie is? OMG, what an insult to all View-ers with triple digit IQs. I wasn't surprised, I was disappointed. Elisabeth tossed out the one question with substance, and then let him skate when he answered. As far as the panel goes, she was my one hope, but she has been growing increasingly docile and now, it seems, has gone over to the dark side -- no pun intended. And I'm talking about gushers, BTW, not Democrats. I won't be View-ing future seasons of The View after the farce that was aired yesterday.

To be honest I was getting pretty tired of fluffy celebrities hawking their tell all book, latest movie, or just released CD. Tired of affordable fashions and ditzy diet fads. Tired of Whoopie peering out from behind her floppy dreadlocks. Tired of the top heavy Sherry stuck chest deep on her divorce, her kid, her galavanting and herself -- not necessarily in that order. Tired of Barbara's faux humility. But more than anything else, I was SICK and tired of Joy's vitriol. What a bitter and pathetic excuse for a comedianne. If I had to choose who to toss out of a boat into shark infested water and it was between Joy Bahar and Nancy Pelosi, I swear I'd either find a way to toss them both, or I'd leave them behind and I'd jump!

But back to the president. I first became aware of Barak Obama when he spoke years ago at the Democratic convention, and I admit I was in absolute awe. What a presence! When we elected him as our first black president, I was proud of us as a nation, and hopeful that he would keep his campaign promises to unite rather than divide. Well, at least he kept one promise... he is transforming America. Regardless of what the majority of the people want, he is getting what he wants,and has definitely fooled some of the people most of the time.

Oh. Did you know the audience of The View that day was made up solely of the show's staff members, crew and favored friends? Not much chance of a heckler that way. And did you know he chose appearing on the popular daytime talk show over an invitation to the celebration of the 100th anniversary of the Boy Scouts of America? Way to go, Mr. President. Way to honor our most precious natural resource, the youth of our land, the face of our nation's future (rather than your own). And he did so without apology. Then, after charming the ladies of The View, he traveled to an event where he addressed teachers and complained to them about the frivolity the female panel had displayed. We have more important matters to discuss, he admonished. OMG. The nerve of the man. Love 'em and leave 'em... in the dust.

I didn't vote for Obama but when he won I wanted to support him and I tried to believe in him and now I wish I could trust him. But I don't. I'll take integrity over charisma any day of the week, but that's hard to find in politics. Come November, our president may find a change he wasn't bargaining for. Can more Republicans level the playing field? Who knows. Maybe it's six one way and half a... dirty... dozen the other.

Shirley Sherrod and The Secret

2010-07-27T09:32:00.000-07:00

What has happened recently to Shirley Sherrod is interesting, ironic, and discouraging. We should be able to trust the media to get it right, and to remain objective in their coverage; but those days are apparently gone for good.

When we finally learned Ms. Sherrod was quoted out of context to come across as racist, what occurred to me is (1) how many times I've been misquoted by the press simply due to lazy reporting, and (2) how the technique of "words out of context" can be used deliberately as a weapon against the speaker.

Or to mislead others.

And this brings to my mind the research Frank and I did when The Secret (Rhonda Byrne's huge money maker) became all the rage. For starters, Ms. Byrne attributed a self-serving quote to Ralph Waldo Emerson: "The secret is the answer to all that has been, all that is, and all that ever will be." According to the Emerson Society (authentic experts and thorough in their knowledge of all things Emerson), no such statement (or anything close to it)ever existed. But here's the tactic used by Byrne that correlates to the Shirley Shirrod fiasco:

In The Secret Ms Byrne quotes Winston Churchill as saying: "You create your own universe as you go along." This statement appears IN CONTEXT as follows (in caps so that it's easier to spot).

“Some of my cousins who had the great advantage of University education used to tease me with arguments to prove that nothing has any existence except what we think of it. The whole creation is but a dream; all phenomena are imaginary. YOU CREATE YOUR OWN UNIVERSE AS YOU GO ALONG. The stronger your imagination, the more variegated your universe. When you leave off dreaming, the universe ceases to exist.

"These amusing mental acrobatics are all right to play with. They are PERFECTLY HARMLESS and PERFECTLY USELESS. I warn my younger readers only to treat them as a game. The metaphysicians will have the last word and defy you to disprove their absurd propositions.”

The quote Byrne attributes to Churchill actually represents the point of view of his COUSINS, with whom Churchuill did NOT agree! In fact, in his own words he declares such "mental acrobatics" to be "perfectly useless."

I have studied ancient philosopy, metaphysics and quantum physics. In all fairness, much of what The Secret teaches is valid; however, some of it is not; and the fact that Byrne felt it necessary to resort to shoddy misrepresentations to support her work, (a) detracts from her credibility and (b) disturbs me. Her public deserves better.

I disagree with Churchill's pronouncement that gullibility in this area is "harmless." Byrne sells the snake oil and includes the caveat that if it doesn't work, it's the fault of the person who bought it, not the person who sold it. She places full responsibiity on each of us as individuals, with no recognition of a divine force superior to man, with the power to intervene in our course of actions. Furthermore, victims such as those devestated by Hurricane Katrina or the 9/11 tragedy, for example, brought it on themselves, she says... giving no recognition either to the negative polarity that exists in our universe.

Her claims are not harmless. Indeed they inflict harm on those gullible enough to believe that, should they fall short of success following her teachings, their failure is their own fault.

Apparently the secret discovered by Ms. Byrne is actually how to make a lot of money selling a little truth wrapped up in a lot of b.s. Maybe she learned this from the modern day media. Or did they learn it from her?

Electronic Overload

2010-07-24T08:53:00.000-07:00

As if I wasn't already confused enough, now that I'm blogging AND FaceBooking AND sending an occasional newsletter e-blast to nearly 2,ooo people, I have to sit in front of my monitor for a few minutes to decide where it is I'm supposed to be going with my fingers on the keyboard, and to do what? And why? And after I push the right buttons, what do I do next, to get there from here?

It's like reaching for my Blackberry to change the channel on the TV, or trying to answer the remote control when I hear something ring.

Which brings me to a pet peeve. I understand the reasoning (sort of) behind hiring workers in foreign countries to do telemarketing. But when I hear someone on the line who trips over their own tongue trying to pronounce the name of my business, and when they give their own name (Nancy or Susan or Robert or Jake, for example) and you have to ask them to repeat it three times before you can penetrate their accent, I lose patience. And they lose me. Click. It seems that our country is paying them not only to pester us incessantly, but also to practice their English on us when they've had few if any actual lessons. Then I feel guilty. Maybe I should have helped them out, like a teacher's aide does in our school system. "Were you trying to say pul-eeze or po-leese? Are you being polite or is this some sort of emergency?"

And what about those stupid calls when you run like mad to answer the phone and the line is dead or you hear some weird signal that isn't even a person. Next thing you know it happens again. Apparently there are machines that call us to find out when the best time is to have a non-machine call us. Or to fax us. Or whatever. Sometimes I make a pretty good guess at it when I see a weird number on my caller ID, but I've been wrong more than once and when I discover it's actually a client calling, I have to immediately switch from my "Why don't you just leave me the blank alone" voice to my "Oh! Great to hear from you" voice. This takes some amount of skill.

Yes, I've put my number on all the "do not call" lists I'm aware of, but this doesn't seem to help. I think it may actually be a scheme whereby your number is sold to other companies so they have more people to pester.

You know it's getting bad when you pull up a chair in front of the microwave and point your cordless mouse at its door, click away, and wonder what's wrong with your reception now, or when you push the button on your mattress warmer control expecting the ceiling fan to accelerate.

But worst of all is when you're talking to your husband about the chores you need him to do, and he points his electronic car key at you, trying to find the mute button.

Happy This & Happy That

2010-07-20T09:58:00.000-07:00

It all began a year or so ago when the girls -- Annabella (almost 6) and Evelyn (almost 4) came to visit and I said, "Oh, Gramma's eyes are so happy to see you!"

Then a few months back when they were getting a little loud while we were driving in the car. I said, "Girls, it makes Gramma's ears very unhappy when you are too loud." So they quieted down. Later they began to get a little snitty with each other. I said, "Oh-oh. Gramma's ears are unhappy again." So they changed their attitude. Of course it makes my ears happy when they hear the girls saying please and thank you and playing nicely with each other.

Then I told them once when we were hugging, "This makes Gramma's arms sooooo happy." Now when they see me they come running with their arms open wide, singing, "Happy arms! Happy arms!"

I tell them brushing their teeth makes their teeth happy, and of course we have to keep their hair happy too. Wearing their pink cowboy boots with the silver and stone decorations, makes for happy feet. Drinking anything out of a grown up (stem) glass makes their hands happy, and they tell me whipped cream and marshmallows make their tummies happy.

What I'm trying to figure out is how to get them to feel happy about their first swimming lesson this afternoon. They like to play in the water with an assortment of floating devices, but they do NOT like putting their faces in the water. And simply mentioning the upcoming lesson results in a heartbreaking look of sheer horror that makes me cry. So I'm not mentioning it again.

Their mother will be here soon to take them to the swim class. I'll wait, and let HER explain why they're getting in the car with their swimsuits on, and not jumping in the pool in Gramma's back yard to make all those floaty devices happy.

Here, There and Everywhere

2010-07-19T12:27:00.000-07:00

I understand the concept of living "in the moment," and yes, there's a lot to be said for it. However, there are also times to revisit the past and skip forward to the future. Sometimes the last thing you want or need is to "be here now." When you're having a blood test or getting an injection, for example. Excellent time to leave the scene, mentally. Come back when it's over.

If we're always here now, isn't that like driving down the freeway and never looking in the rearview mirror, or checking out what lies ahead of you to anticipate and avoid whatever? I believe it's about balance. Look around you, Grasshopper, to see the sights, take in the smells, and get the feel of here now, but occasionally shift your focus so that you can (a) learn from the past in order to avoid repeating mistakes OR to draw upon an experience that is enriching; and (b) project into the future to (a) create an image of how you hope your life will be (remember it's written in the Bible that where there is no vision, the people perish) OR to consider options and make informed choices in advance. This is called being organized.

I leave for Alaska in 25 days. I'm pleased to say I've been there before (with Frank), so remembering my past trips makes me very happy, and anticipating the upcoming trip (with my daughter-in-law) excites me and motivates me to make calls, send e-mails, etc., to put our itinerary in order. (When I talk to someone on the phone who is in Alaska, I mentally travel there, which is a lot more fun that sitting at my desk.)

I've also calendared every Jennifer Lind / New Christy Minstrels performance I can get to through the end of the year, I'm expecting another granddaughter early September, I'm jazzed about a Horse Trail Trial ride I'm doing in October, and in November I'll be in Hawaii with my son who's turning 50, along with some other family members. The idea is to have things TO look forward to! A monk in a monestary is ensconced in routine, with every day being virtually the same as the one before it. Nice place to visit but wouldn't want to live there. In my world I want to skip around in time. And eat meat.

I feel very, very sad for the cows, chickens, sheep, etc. But I also feel bad when I pick a zucchini from my garden, bring it in, cut it up, put it in a salad or a frying pan, then eat it. Perhaps it isn't a "sentient being," but do we know that for sure? I mean, vegetation may have its own standard for setting the value of life. I think we have to ask, "What is the purpose of a cow? A Zucchini?" Maybe when we consume them for energy, we are helping them fulfill their destiny? Perhaps the best we can do is to maintain an attitude of appreciation and reverence. A little sensitivity...

On my way out to Brandi's pasture at the ranch I pass an old white horse named Isabella, who is literally skin and bone, dying of cancer. It just breaks my heart. I always glance that way to see if she's still there, knowing one day she won't be. Sometimes I stop and give her a carrot. Frank reminds me that in the wild, she would have been long gone. Food for the wolves. It isn't always a pretty world...

BUT! ALASKA IS BEAUTIFUL! This is me bringing myself back UP! See how it works? Looking back, looking ahead, visiting another place in our minds -- I believe we've been given this ability for a reason. And I'm here now making it a point to focus on the plans I just made to zipline in Skagway, for example, rather than dwelling on the fact that I'll be away from Frank for 14 days. Oooops.

ALASKA IS BEAUTIFUL. That's me, bringing myself up again.

A Night To Remember

2010-07-18T09:12:00.001-07:00

Last night we went to a fundraiser at Micke Grove Zoo. It was a highlight in my life for many reasons.

1) We arrived early to get a good seat, only to learn that Jennifer Lind had reserved a place for us with her family. What an honor! VIP seating! And I was right next to her mom, which was a delight in itself. It was fun to bask in the glow of maternal pride, and to hear stories of Jennifer's childhood (over a very tasty steak dinner).

2) I was not only in the presence of a legend -- Randy Sparks -- but we all had the privilege and pleasure of singing Happy Birthday to him. (How many people can say they have sung to Randy Sparks?!) He's turning 77 this week. He doesn't look it. He can still charm an audience with his wonderful wit, clever lyrics, and distinctive voice. They don't make 'em like Randy Sparks anymore. I smiled so much that this morning my cheeks hurt. Driving home last night my palms were tingling from all the clapping.

3) Jennifer was on top of her game. She sang a solo love song to her husband that made my heart skip a beat. God, I love her voice. It's like none other I've ever heard. Becky Jo has a a scene-stealing stage presence, but oh, that Jennifer. I'm not sure but there may be a halo that appears when she sings. Well, you can hear it more than see it, but there it is, perched at an interesting little angle, almost touching one cute little ear.

4) We came out on top of the bidding with one out of three items we were interested in, and won the only drawing prize I was really hoping for. All this while feeling really cool that our money was going to a worthy cause (feeding the critters at the zoo). Which brings to mind Randy's remarks about charities. He so pushed my buttons! This was the fifth year that he has performed at this particular fundraiser, and it's his policy to do so on his own terms -- that every cent go to the cause... not 90% to "administration" and 10% to help out, as is so often the case. Way to go, Randy!

I've said it before but I'm going on the record with it here and now. Jennifer Lind is going places. On a selfish note (no pun intended), when she reaches the top I'll be able to say I knew her on her way up. I hope she's aware of the Zen concept: "When you reach the top of the mountain, keep climbing!"

I'ts the Old Yin/Yang Thing Again

2010-07-17T15:08:00.001-07:00

So. My grandson, who is a professional bull rider and bronc rider -- living out his cowboy dreams in Texas -- is back in California. Has been for nearly a week. Do I know this because he called, texted or came to see me?

No. I found out on FaceBook.

When I asked my granddaughter about this I discovered that yes, young Craig has seen his Dad (Craig the elder). And even though (a) I spent part of last night with Craig the Elder walking around together at Lincoln Center Live (an event he enjoys, I don't, but his wife couldn't go and he didn't want to go alone so I was happy to fill in), and even though (b) I always ask, "What do you hear from the kids? How are they doing?" and even though (c) I offered this morning to let my granddaughter use my truck till she can buy a car, and even though (d) I left a message on a couple of machines saying "I hear Young Craig is in California -- still, somehow, no one thought to mention to me that they have seen him! Meaning he has been, most likely, within five minutes of my house.

Hmmm...

Are my feelings hurt?

Maybe.

At the same time, I can look back on when I lived in San Jose and there were times I came to Stockton and didn't go to see my grandmother. Or even call her. So I understand. Priorities are priorities, and Young Craig is about having a good time, not about stopping by an old lady's house to give her a hug.

It doesn't matter that I used to change his diapers. It doesn't matter that from the time he started walking until he lost interest, every year on his birthday we drove him to The Broken Arrow Western Store on the outskirts of town to let him pick out his own little cowboy boots. It doesn't matter that I taught him in grammar school a neat way to learn his spelling words. It doesn't matter that we went to his rodeos when his father wouldn't, and watched him hit the ground and hit the fence and be hit by various parts of an irate bull. Over and over again. It doesn't matter that we bought him his first chaps, so he didn't have to borrow someone else's, or that we slipped him 20-40 bucks everytime we saw him, to help pay for gas. It doesn't matter that I am absolutely certain he found time to visit his other set of grandparents (his mother would see to that).

What matters is that I was deliberately left out of the loop on this visit, and not just by him.

It's the old Yin and Yang thing. In all good there is bad and in all bad there is good. Getting old is a good thing when you consider the alternative, and knowing that your kids, grandkids and great grandkids love you is a good thing too, but a bad thing when you're the only one reminding yourself of that.

This is the way I see it: When you're a parent, it's like you're driving the car and your kids are passengers. Then they start driving, but you get to sit up front. Then they start picking up other passengers, and you're moved to the back seat. Then the inside of the car fills up, and you're put in the trunk.

Need I talk about "kicked to the curb" being next?

As my almost-six-year-old granddaughter Annabella told me a year or so ago, "It's all a part of life, Gramma." I think she was talking about a broken crayon, and I was impressed with the philosophy lesson, taught to her by my daughter, no doubt.

I'm sorry now for the times I didn't phone or visit my grandmother. I think it's because my mother treated her badly, and I learned by osmosis to also deem her unimportant. That was also back when I was still trying to win my mother's approval, by being as much like her as possible (though I didn't realize this at the time. And, by the way, it didn't work. I never won her approval.) But my gramma lived alone, and I was the baby of the family. Now, in looking back, I'm ashamed of myself. I hope I made up for it later in life, when she lived her last year with me and my family in a nice home in the country, and I spoiled her all I could.

I don't live alone though, as she did, so less harm done. And speaking of looking back, my Honey is taking me to the fundraiser tonight at Micke Grove Zoo, where I'm hoping Jennifer Lind and Randy Sparks will sing their duet, "Looking Back." It's my favorite.

Maybe for awhile I can get lost in their music, and forget about being "forgotten" -- so to speak.

The Mel Gibson Debacle

2010-07-17T13:37:00.001-07:00

I have had it!

No, not with Mel Gibson. I've never been a huge Mel Gibson fan, so how dramatically he screws up his life is not something I'll lose sleep over.

I've had it with the media! Nothing irks me more than having my intelligence insulted, and the media gets off big time on doing exactly that.

Here are some sensible (as opposed to salacious) points I'd like to make:

1. Am I the only one who knows how easy it is to mix voices on a recording? And to "cut and paste" sound bites to make an exchange into something it wasn't? Consider this possibility:

She says (in reality): "Mel, you cut my allowance in half last month!"

He says (in reality): "You were snorting coke with the baby in your arms. You deserved it when I only gave you 10K instead of 20K for your damned incidentals."

She has this on tape. Now she doctors the tape. She says into a recorder, "You hit me in the mouth when I was holding the baby, and you broke two of my teeth." After which she splices in Mel saying, "... You deserved it!"

Now don't get me wrong. I have been the victim of spousal abuse (a zillion years ago), so this ditsy dame gets no sympathy from me. Nor does Mel. It goes without saying it's their baby I care most about. But here's the question: Is Mel an over-the-top a..h.... extraordinaire, or is he manic depressive? Which is a mental disorder. He's so text book manic depressive it screams out (no pun intended) at anyone who has ever so much as sat in on a Psychology 101 class!

Now I'm not going to try here to educate the public on manic depression,. I'm no expert. But I will say this, because it needs saying (and the media certainly isn't taking the opportunity): (1) There seems to be a direct positive correlation between manic depression and head injuries. Duh. Has not Mel-the-mess done many of his own movie stunts? (2) Remember when Mel had a cathedral built where he could worship because the mainstream Catholic environment was too "soft" for his deep devotion? Duh. Manic depressives are people who take extreme opposites to... the extreme. A private cathedral and the penchant for verbal/physical/possibly sexual abuse he demonstrates? Extreme opposites. Hello? (3) Delusions associated with narcissism are common with manic depression, often centering on, "I'm so special, so superior to others, that the rules and laws that apply to them don't apply to me!"

My point here is actually this one: If reporters actually cared about reporting in any manner that might actually serve a societal purpose, wouldn't they be looking at and talking about manic depression -- which can decimate lives and has decimated thousands of lives apart from this sad, sorry-ass celebrity couple? Fact is, reporters are not in the news business to help make this world a better place. They're in it to make their paychecks better! And the unquestioning public supports this and them.

Most reporters practically salivate when something turns to s...t and they can get to it with a microphone and a camera. And objectivity? Puleeeze. They can't even fake it. And since I'm admittedly no expert, where the h...l are all the actual psychiatric experts who could be on talk shows actually educating the public about manic depression?

That's actually why I've had it!

Things And Other Stuff

2010-07-17T10:16:00.000-07:00

The more things you have, the more things you have to take care of. You have a house? Gotta take care of it. House with a yard? Gotta take care of the yard too. House with a yard with a pool? Now you gotta take care of the pool as well. Vegetable garden? Weeds to pull.

The more things you have, the more things you have to worry about. You have a car? Gotta worry about it breaking down, or being scratched or dinged (or worse) or stolen. You have a car that's a convertible? Now you have to worry about someone slashing the cloth top. Your car have a nice in-dash stereo system? Gotta worry about it being taken.

The more things you have, the more things you have to figure out how to use. I can't even name all the pieces of electronic equipment my husband has foisted upon me, let alone use any of them.

I can remember when life was simple. A friend would phone me and we'd meet for lunch. Now? A "friend" is someone on your FaceBook page, whom you may or may not even know. Is someone trying to reach me? I have to check my home phone and my cell phone for messages. I have to check for a text message as well. I have to check my e-mail, and even the mail box out front because some old timers still send something now and then via the post office. I have to check my FaceBook, even though I've only had a one-hour class and haven't the foggiest idea what I'm doing there, I just navigate from place to place as best I can -- a little like a drunk sailor. And of course when I blog, I have to check for comments... just in case.

Probably shouldn't even start on the beeping. Yet here I go. It seems as though everything in my life is beeping at me these days. The microwave. The toaster oven. The washing machine. My cell phone. Though some things ding instead. My car, my truck, I'm sure there's more, but can't bring them to my frazzled mind at the moment.

I must, however, mention the sound the house alarm makes when we walk in and have just-so-long to get the key pad to deactivate it. There's also the sound it makes when we forget to deactivate the motion detector at night, and the cat decides to stretch in the living room while we're in our bedroom with the door closed. Next thing you know all hell has broken loose because I wake up thinking OMG SOMEONE HAS BROKEN IN and Frank thinks something like "damn cat" and I think "Someone could be getting ready to rob and shoot us and he's rolling outta bed like he's heading for the fridge to get a snack???" and the neighbors are thinking, "What the...? Again?"

There was a time when my life plan was to live at the Ashram, once my boys grew up and left home. A quiet place set deep in the forest of rambling foothills. But then I met Frank. The greatest distraction of my life. He visited the Ashram with me a few times, and we toyed with my former plan even after we were married, but for a variety of reasons chose to remain grounded in reality instead. Just as well. We have made trips to the Ashram and have watched it change over the years. Now it's pretty darned civilized, itself. Not like back in the good old days of kerosene lamps, wood burning stoves and outhouses.

Which brings to mind the first time I went there. Hiking through the woods I heard a "mmmmmm" sound in the distance. My heartbeat quickened. Someone was chanting! It grew louder upon my approach, and I discovered... it was a chain saw. Someone was cutting firewood.

But at least the saw wasn't beeping or dinging at me.

Though on my last trip I did spot a microwave on the counter in the backroom of the little carpeted, air conditioned gift shop (right next to the ladies room that has running water and a toilet that flushes). No more dirt roads, either. Some paved, some gravel. The vegetarian meals are still beyond delicious though, which makes it a nice place to visit but -- wouldn't wanna live there. Hmmm... Now that I've reminded myself of the place, we might want to head that way one day soon for a little get-away.

What's New?

2010-07-15T18:02:00.001-07:00

My purse! My purse is new!

I recently emptied the top shelf of one closet, where I had stashed more than a dozen purses of varying size and design. They were the "keepers," while others before them had already exited the premises to pursue their destiny via the neighborhood thrift store. The remainder I neatly dumped in a large pile in the middle of the room when three of my granddaughters visited last week, and they managed to choose all but three for their own personal use. Three more now for the thrift store next time I'm running around doing errands.

Which means next time Frank says, "Any other stops you want me to make?" when he is running errands for me. I'm soooo spoiled.

Purses are, for me almost as problematic as shoes. I love being barefooted, and so buying shoes is never fun, though I have to admit Kip and his crew at Foot Solutions on Pacific Avenue here in Stockton have managed to make it less painful than in the past. There are, after all, times when shoes are a must, so might as well find some that are both cute and comfortable... ish.

Purses, on the other hand, are easily dispensed with if you go most places with your husband. You just stick some stuff in his pockets and the rest of your stuff in the console of his car. This leaves your hands free, your lines smooth (though his are lumpy) and you don't have to worry about whether your purse is too big, too small, too fancy, too plain, the right or wrong color, or embarrassingly out of style.

What I'm getting at is that I have been on the hunt for the perfect purse for over a year. The one I've been carrying I bought on Kauai (where hitting every gift store on the island proved fruitless and I finally found this one in a tiny rustic grocery store, but it's almost sorta falling apart a little now.

So I decided to adopt the same attitude toward purse shopping that I had when I found Frank 35 years ago (I was determined that if I ever let a man back into my life, I'd keep him forever). But back to purses: Since I don't like shopping, I resorted to catalogs, and finally found exactly what I've dreamed of. Real leather, for starters. Yes, I love animals and am sorry for any/all unfair treatment of them, but in my mind putting their hides to practical use is a way of honoring their sacrifice, reminiscent of Native American tradition. (How's that for rationalization?). It's also just the right size, a gorgeous shade of deep brown that reminds me of my horse's eyes, and has lots of compartments with zippers and snaps, etc. It arrived today, and I am COMMITTED!

I can wear it with anything, and carry it with or without shoes on my feet. Best of all, never again will my lipstick or driver's license go through the washer and dryer in Frank's pants.

What's in a Word? Oh My!

2010-07-14T16:25:00.001-07:00

When I need to wake up my brain cells I work a crossword puzzle. When I want to pass time in a waiting room, for example, I work a cross word puzzle. When Frank is driving and there's no scenery worth gawking at, I work a cross word puzzle. Yes, I almost always carry two or three puzzles from the newspaper with me in my purse at all times. You never know when you might need one.

When I want to pass time in a nearly numb state of mind, however, I play Scrabble. I can play Scrabble on my home computer, on my laptop, and on my Blackberry. Although I am easily lulled into game after game after game after game, it's also true that if I don't work to maintain my emotional equilibrium, I can fly off the handle, sink into depression, or jump up to dance a heels-kicking jig -- depending on whether I am making the best plays or "it" is. It's not always about winning or losing, understand, but more than anything else about the ongoing challenge of the game itself as things change with each new word that appears on the board.

Over time I have elevated the skill level at which I play. I am now at a level where "it" (with an unlimited vocabulary) is playing some of the most preposterous words I've ever encountered. Check them out: zarf, turps, gox, kaf, nazify, azo, suq, zouk, qat, mixt, zaire. I mean really! To keep my blood pressure down I amuse myself when "it" plays words such as these, by imagining using the word in a sentence.

"Oh, give me a second. I think I left my gox on the table in the restaurant."

"Are you sure you want to date someone with the tendency to nazify?"

"The only thing I want for my birthday is a new kaf for my collection."

I also apply the wisdom of the Dalai Lama, who has said, "Learn the rules well so you know how to break them wisely." It isn't that I break the rules of Scrabble exactly, I have just made up my own. For example, if "it" has a score that tops mine by more than 100 points and there are fewer than 7 tiles on my board, I say to myself, "Zarf it! I qat!"

Now I recognize that the crazy words "it" plays are legitimate in some vocabulary somewhere, but it sure isn't mine and it isn't in my sphere of reality. Aside from creating words, which is fun for me, I also use the game as an opportunity to practice tolerance. But that doesn't always work and sometimes I just resort to opting out because, frankly, I believe that in any relationship tolerance must be reciprocal. And I don't notice "it" cutting me any slack!

Months back (and I still haven't found it in my heart to forgive) I got really excited when I was able to lay down all 7 letters (which wins you an extra 50 points) on a triple-score play. The word I spelled was "untinted." Now, isn't it easy enough to put that one into context without turning maniacal about it? "I'd like the back windows tinted, but please leave the front windows untinted." See?

But no! UNTINTED IS NOT AN ACCEPTABLE WORD according to "it." I didn't get to play on the triple, or play all my letters anywhere else for that matter. If you ask me, this is a crock of zouk!

But wait, there's more: Yesterday I played (for a triple score, but not using all my letters) the word joint. Since the j is quite valuable in and of itself and another letter was on a double letter square, this gave me a decent score -- 39, I believe it was. Nothing to write home about, but I wasn't hanging my head in shame either. Then... are you ready for this? "It" added un as a prefix and ing to take my clever word all the way down to the lower corner, for a triple word score of 54!

So, you with me here? "It" can play unjointing but I can't play untinted. Does that suq, or what?

To end on a positive note, though, allow me to brag. Last night I opened the game (which doubles your word score automatically) by placing the Q on a double letter square, then completing the word queerly, which used all my letters and gave me an extra 50 points. My score for that one breathtaking word? 106! An all time record for this scrabbler.

A bittersweet victory though, with untinted and unjointing still stuck in my craw. So when it comes to Scrabble I am left with mixt feelings, and I'm starting to think about taking up knitting instead. I mean I might drop a stitch now and then, but at least I woudn't be calling the knitting needle azo under my breath.

Here's to Brandi!

2010-07-13T18:19:00.000-07:00

Okay, I have tried. I have given it my best effort. But I must now admit failure, because I can no longer resist talking about my horse. The whole horse and nothing but the horse.

I love my horse.

I'm not one of those people who is at the ranch every day grooming, bathing, lunging, riding, etc., my horse. I don't have her name tattooed to my chest or shoulder or lower back or rear end, or any other place on my body. I don't run around in blue jeans and leather belt with a silver buckle and a cowboy hat and polished boots, a costume that screams out desperately, "See? I have a horse!"

But nonetheless, I love my horse.

My favorite picture of her is my screen saver, or wall paper, or whatever. (I don't know the difference.) And when I look at it, she's there, looking right back at me. And I practically get shivers down my spine. She is soooo beautiful.

Oh, don't get me wrong. She'd win no beauty prize in any equine contest. Though I'm told she won some ribbons, trophies, or whatever, before I became her person. But in my mind, in my heart, there is simply no other horse in the entire world that can come close to her. She's "just'" a moody, bay quarter horse, with one white ankle on her right rear foot and a "star" on her forehead. (Did you know a mark there of any sort is called a "star" even if it's not in the shape of a star? )

The thing that I love most about her is the little neighing sound she makes when she sees me walking toward her pasture, and the way she walks or maybe even trots right to me when she sees me at the fence, or hears me call her name. No, sorry. What I love best is what happens when her eyes meet mine. There's just this exchange that I can't put into words.

It isn't acquiescence, that's for sure. I'm tempted to say, "She's her own person!" but of course she's not a person, so I guess that has to be, "She's her own horse." I'm her person. We have that understanding. She doesn't belong to me. I belong to her. Or maybe it's just that we belong together.

I ride occasionally. I never call it "working" her, I call it playing together; even though I understand that, in the interest of safety, I have to do my best to remain in control. Oh, I don't even like to put it that way. It's more like, we're working on our relationship, learning to trust each other. It's an ongoing process.

I often tell her I'm sorry she has a person with such a busy life that I can't be there every day, but on the other hand I pay a healthy sum to make sure she is boarded in a place she loves, where she is well looked after in my absence. And my consolation when I am too long from the ranch is this, that "Brandi is happy just being a horse."

I think of her often. I miss her. Thinking of her sometimes brings a smile to my face, sometimes a tear to my eye. I wish I had the time and energy to put in hours a day every day together, but that's not the hand I've been dealt at this stage of my life. So I do the best I can., and I can only hope she, on some level, understands.

And I believe she does.

We just have that kind of connection.

Who and What I Love and Why

2010-07-12T14:55:00.000-07:00

I love my husband. I love the outdoors. I love Alaska. I love good music with meaningful lyrics. I love John Denver. I love horses. I love eagles. I love babies. I love chocolate. I love champagne.

Now, you can imagine how difficult it would be to combine all of my loves into one wonder-filled evening, but last night I did the best I could. I settled down with my honey and watched my John Denver Wildlife Concert DVD (filmed around 1995). John opened with his song, "Eagles and Horses," and the deal was sealed -- even without champagne, chocolate or babies on hand.

He stole my heart along with millions of other hearts, back in the day, and no one has ever or will ever take his place. That's because in my life it's not an empty place he left behind, it's a place still filled with his love for life and my love for him -- as a unique and genuinely talented artist.

I saw him perform at Lake Tahoe in the seventies, then again at the Cow Palace. His feet barely touched the floor of the stage, he was so high on life; and I'm sure everyone in the audience felt he was singing just for them. The third performance I went to was in Sacramento, after he and Annie had split up. The bounce was gone from his step and the sparkle gone from his eye, but he was still JOHN DENVER -- 100% human but larger than life, and through his music totally open about his heartaches as well as his passion for nature and all living things.

I find it interesting how, over time, it all comes together. Your life, I mean. I've been to Alaska twice (one of John's favorite places), and I'm excited about going again in just a few weeks. But sooner than that my husband and I are going to an event at Micke Grove zoo where Randy Sparks (who is a legend in his own right and who helped make John a star) will be performing, with all proceeds going to feed the animals and preserve the zoo for future generations. One of the singers accompanying Randy will be Jennifer Lind, whom I'm fortunate to know personally, and whose voice should have been listed here in my opening paragraph. I love Jennifer's voice.

In his Wilderness Concert as John narrated, he talked about the pollution of our rivers and said, choking up a little, that he dearly wanted to someday be able to take his grandchildren fishing. Obviously, and sadly, that isn't going to happen. But because of his love of mountains, forests, animals, birds, sea life, the ocean and rivers and streams, his music brought the magic of nature to millions who could not travel as extensively as he.

Interesting too that, in spite of his wealth and fame and determination, he was denied another of his most fervent dreams -- to travel to the moon. I look skyward at night every now and then and think of him, recalling his lyrics, "dance across the mountains of the moon." I imagine him dancing there at last, and of course singing his songs, many of which feel as though they were written just for me.

Thanks again, John.

Grandmotherhood

2010-07-10T17:11:00.001-07:00

I was married two weeks after my 18th birthday, 19 when my first son was born, and 21 when my second came along. I was 35 when I had my third child, a daughter... the one out of three that was planned (though all were welcomed).

I thought I had anticipated all age-related problems on this third go-round, and by "all" I mean the only one that actually occured to me: the inevitable question, "Ahh, is this your granddaughter?"

Thankfully, that never happened.

What I had not anticipated was, twenty-some-odd years later, having my daughter and my first actual granddaughter pregnant at the same time, with my new granddaughter and my first great granddaughter being born only a month apart. Still with me?

Well, now I have enough grandkids and great grandkids that I can't keep names and birthdays straight, and family gatherings mean we settle for whoever we can get because we can never get everyone together under one roof at the same time anymore.

No problem. I wouldn't have enough matching dinner plates anyway and, being a Virgo, matching matters.

With my daughter being 32 now and her daughters almost 4, almost 6, and due in September, here is another problem I had not anticipated: Although I will probably be around long enough to tell my daughter, "Told you so" when her kids turn into teenagers, I may very well not be alive to see her become a grandmother!

I bring this up because she gives me a bad time when I tell her it's not my job to make the girls eat what's on their plate or go to bed at a sensible hour or put their toys away when they are at Gramma's house. And try as I may, I cannot convey to her why seeing the little ones once a week or maybe twice isn't enough for me! Three times a week might do it, but what has happened recently, which brings all this to mind, is that next week I am going to have to go the entire week without seeing them.

And what does she have to say about that? "Gee, a whole week? Think you'll survive?"

As if I were being unreasonable about this or something!

The girls just went home yesterday and I am already going into withdrawl. I'm trying to find an excuse to drive the thirty miles to their place. Ah! I found a white sock under the couch! But no, my daughter tells me when I call to ask permission to invade their privacy, the girls don't need that sock for the next week, they'll do just fine without it. Damn. Why didn't I accidentally forget to pack Annabella's glasses when I sent them home?

Well, if I were a lesser person I'd be hoping that when my daughter becomes a grandmother her grandchildren will all be living on the other side of the globe. But I love her too much to sink that low. When she becomes a grandmother I hope her daugher understands the urgency of time spent with the little ones -- who bring so much pleasure with their hugs and kisses and words of wisdom, and their exposing of family secrets like how their cousin got caught stealing money from their other grandmothers' purse!

Sadly, I probably won't be around when my daughter's turn comes to be a gramma. Or if I am, I will have forgotten why that seemed important to me, way back when. But if there is such a thing as reincarnation, I hope I come back as a fly on the wall. A FAST FLYING fly on the wall, and a silent, tiny, longliving one at that.

Alaska Again At Last!

2010-07-09T13:56:00.000-07:00

At last I am allowing myself to talk about it. I mean blog about it. Alaska! Travel plans have been made for the past two months but I am so excited about going back, I knew if I talked about it all this time, I mean blogged about it, I'd be driving people nuts. So I told myself I wouldn't broach the subject here until six weeks prior to my departure date.

Well... kids, grandkids and great grandkids have been pleasant distractions and I've overshot by a week. I leave five weeks from today!

This will be my third trip to our northernmost state, and similar to the previous two in many ways: I'm taking the Alaska Highway System passenger fairy again from Bellingham, WA (3 days, 3 nights) to Juneau. Staying there a few days, then jumping back on board to head farther north to Skagway, as before. Staying a bit, then back to Juneau. Plan to put in some traditional token time at the Red Dog Saloon (the original). I've already made reservations for another raft trip on the Mendenhahl one day, and to spend another day riding the narrow gauge train (original box cars complete with pot belly stoves) -- a breathtaking adventure, although the train no longer goes all the way to Whitehorse, Yukon Territory (as before)..

The huge difference is that this time I won't be with Frank, my honey of a husband for 34+ years. He enjoyed Alaska the first two times, but has no desire to go back. My son Craig has been there on business and isn't interested in going again, but his wife Blanca has always wanted to go, and so we're making it a Girls Going Crazy adventure. We always have a good time together but, considering I'm not as young as she is and I'm not as young as I used to be either, I hope I can keep up with her and survive the good time we plan to have!

Alaska is the only place I've ever travelled to where I didn't want to come home. I'm not a traveler by nature and usually my favorite part of any trip is coming home. But in Alaska, the air is clean and crisp and clear, and the people are... different from the people here. They're... friendly. Not the "Welcome, tourist!" kind of friendly you often find in Hawaii, but genuinely amiable, always interested in helping, and obviously proud of their State. Regardless of the elements, they blend into their environment and invite you in as well. I love Alaska -- the people, the place, and the outdoorsy lifestyle. I would live there in a heartbeat if I could move all my family with me.

There's just one tiny problem I foresee around the bend, however; and I believe we can nip it in the bud. One of us is nuts about Sarah Palin and one of us can't stand to hear the mention of her name. Alaska is Sarah Palin country, but we have vowed not to speak of her on our trip.

Since drinking is the national pass-time in Alaska, and I'm not exactly known for my ability to handle booze well, I'm in the early stage of inventing something I think might help... duct tape with a hole in it to hold a straw. I'll let you know how it works when I return toward the end of August. (Give me a little time to recuperate first...)

On a Day Like Today

2010-07-07T12:27:00.000-07:00

This day began for me as all days do.

I woke up.

I wondered, "What day is this?"

I reviewed the events of yesterday in my mind, ascertained what day of the week they occurred on, and mentally placed the name of this new day next in the succession learned in kindergarten.

I got out of bed, made a leisurely trip to the bathroom, weighed myself -- down half a pound from yesterday -- Yes! Fist pump in the air -- made coffee, and then said "Good morning, Honey" to my... honey... as he joined me on the deck (which we now call the lanai because I've decorated it to reflect our last...so long ago... trip to Hawaii).

Frank opened the newspaper and I began the crossword puzzle. We sipped our coffee as though we had all day to enjoy it, which we actually did because I had planned it that way, scheduling today as an opportunity to recuperate from our little granddaughters' visit yesterday and our son's family BBQ the day before.

I say did have all day because that was when I asked, casually, "Did you remember to check the court's web site last night about jury duty?"

You've possibly guessed the rest, but let me fill in some details. As Frank headed for the computer I glanced at the clock. 7:45 gave Frank exactly 15 minutes to shower, shave, get dressed, comb his hair, brush his teeth, grab his cell phone, find his keys, remember where he put the jury duty paperwork, and make the 20-minute drive to the courthouse. Uh huh...

Now if we have figured out anything over the past 34+ years together, we've figured out how to function smoothly as a team, even in high pressure situations such as this one. So he got dressed and brushed his teeth, and I found his keys, handed him his cell phone and a protein bar, and as he closed the kitchen door behind him I mentally, fervently, sent a telepathic message reminding him to press the button that opens the garage door before backing out. That worked.

So I settled in for a day all to myself, and I made a list of things to do -- since I/we had planned to do nothing. Calm and in control, I then took my coffee to my desk and began to work on the revision of Brain Imagery papers that are a work-related project. At the first tap of my fingers my monitor screen went black. Afraid that the monster might be getting ready to swallow me whole, I cautiously left the room on tippy toe, renewing my vow to myself that someday I'll learn something about computers others than how to type on the keyboard and push the "print" button.

I decided to do some hand sewing, took my coffee with me, and settled onto the couch in front of the TV. After a mere five-minute search I found the remote control device which Frank usually hides from me as a preventative measure because I've threatened so many times to throw it mightily through the TV screen since it makes about as much sense to me as the control panel of a space shuttle. I bravely pushed a button, waited patiently as the screen began to come alive, and enjoyed a brief surge of exuberance as I recognized the face of one of my favorite pundits.

That was when I noticed his mouth wasn't moving, it was making no sounds, and his eyes were at half mast. Actually one eye was at 3/4 mast but out of respect for the gentlemen I wasn't going to mock him by pointing this out to you, until I realized I haven't mentioned his name so the secret remains safe.

Since watching TV was going to be secondary to my hand sewing anyway, I determined that this minor disruption did not constitute grounds for launching the remote control toward the frozen face in front of me. I gingerly placed the device on the table, deciding to ignore the picture of the pundit in his present state of peculiarity. In the interest of full disclosure I was afraid to push another button in an attempt to make the screen go black like the monitor on my desk. I could easily do my hand sewing in silence, a little like eating breakfast at the ashram (yoga retreat) where speaking is not allowed during the first meal of the day.

But wait! Breakfast! I sometimes forget to eat unless Frank reminds me it's time so, feeling a little smug over the realization that I can take care of myself, thank you very much, I hied me to the kitchen (as Shakespeare might have put it if he were having a bad day). Cinnamon toast? Bagel with cream cheese? Bacon and eggs? Cereal with fruit? Nothing sounded good. I grabbed a protein bar. If my honey and I couldn't have breakfast together, at least we could both eat the same thing.

Back to my hand sewing I went, but couldn't find the needle and thread I had joined together previously. Went back to the kitchen to see if I had taken it with me, couldn't find it but did notice grubby fingerprints on the toaster that would have been the delight of any forensics team. Grabbed the 409 and did away with the annoying evidence, noticing then a jar of peanut butter that had been left on the counter. Put it in the fridge, rearranging things to make room for it. This reminded me that we are almost out of eggs.

"I'd better make a shopping list," I said to myself, smiling, because we all know a smile actually changes the tone of your voice and I want to be receptive to myself. Picked up my "palm pilot" -- which is actually a cute little paper tablet with a hard cover on it that shows a silhouette of a horse (a gift from my daughter) - and found there my to do list.

Noticed an errand that needed running so jumped in my little Ranger and got 'er done, after which when I pulled back into my driveway and tried to use the handy little push button contraption Frank has attached to my key chain to lock the truck door electronically, but the door wouldn't lock. (At this point, why would I expect it to?) What did happen when I opened the truck door was that something inside began ding-ding-dinging at me, and I noticed my tail lights flashing. I pushed a different button that turned them off but I still can't lock the doors till Frank can sort this out for me later.

I'm thinking now about just soaking in a nice tub of warm water until he gets home, after first disconnecting everything in the bathroom that could possibly, under any circumstances, engage electricity in any form. On days like this, one can never be too safe.

As for the missing needle, since I'm always running around the house barefooted I'm sure I'll find in one day soon.

At least it has no batteries and isn't plugged in.

Thoughts About Family on the Fourth

2010-07-04T14:14:00.000-07:00

It's the 4th of July. I have baked a (homegrown) zucchini torte and made my famous Weigh Better Potato Salad to take to a BBQ at my sons's house. Tomorrow. On the 5th. That's because my granddaughter and her family will be here tomorrow from North Carolina, so that's the day of our celebration. Not today. I'm sure our forefathers would understand and approve of this one-day delay.

A holiday such as Indepenedence Day is about celebration, tradition, history, yes. And it's about family -- first and foremost. The more the merrier, even though personalities don't always mesh, and some subjects must remain off limits because of differing views, heated opinions, moods and mood swings.

Despite some bumpy roads we've all been down together, I love seeing my kids, their spouses, their kids and their kids' kids all together -- even though there's always someone missing. It's impossible to get everyone together these days. There are other people to be visited, other places to go, and things like jobs and work schedules that make demands of their own. Sometimes we just do the best we can and settle for what we can get. And on the subject of family:

My husband and I have been watching a new series (on disc) called Burn Notice. The lead character is a CIA spy who has been "burned" -- meaning fired -- hung out to dry with no identity, no connections, no cash, no credit, no work history, etc. -- and he doesn't know why. Story lines are always full of intrigue as he uses his spy savvy to (a) try to find out who burned him and why and (b) extricate ordinary folks from not-so-everyday dangerous situations. What shines brightest in this series though is the array of characters.

The actor's portrayal of Michael Weston (think handsome, loveable smart-ass) reminds me of my grandson who now lives in Texas, a professional bull-and-bronc rider. The ex-spy's gorgeous gun crazy kick-ass ex-IRA guerrila fighter girlfriend/not girlfriend is the character I would most like to identify with, but alas. It's not to be. Because there's also the mother, definitely flawed and either directly or indirectly responsible for Michael's uhh... maybe warped... personality that so suits him for the dangerous line of work he has pursued. Father is absent, which is for the best, based on unpleasant memories that are discussed and sometimes defended, for better or worse. The younger brother shows up as the bad boy with a gambling habit and a grudge, and then there's a boozing older ex-SEAL buddy who's always ready to help make things better -- and worse. These are the regulars.

Thing is, the show is about family, and though it sometimes hits close to home in a sad way, it's also always good for a chuckle or ten. As I look forward to seeing my own gathering of characters tomorrow, especially my granddaughter and two great granddaughters, my hopes are high for a good time had by all. Including me. But a little voice is trying to help out by whispering, "Ah ah ah, not too high, remember. The higher those hopes rise, the harder they fall."

So I make a whimpy vow to try my damnedest to keep my mouth shut tomorrow -- just watch and listen and smile and... drink (not too much, just enough) -- because the role my offspring has assigned me is not the wise and kindly matriarch adored and revered by all. More like the mom in Burn Notice, I guess I have motherhood warts where freckles would be more appealing. I know my kids love me, so to speak, but I also know I'll most likely say or do something that will meet with criticism either to my face or behind my back. It's inevitable.

Which substantiates what I've always said about parenthood. You never get it right. I'm very proud of all my brood, they've filled my love tank with happy memories and made my life worth living. If it's possible to love your kids too much, however, I do. Too much? Not enough? You never get it right.

What's New? I'm Jazzed! That's What!

2010-07-02T18:46:00.000-07:00

What’s new, you ask?

Well, let me tell you! I am jazzed! Three reasons:

One reason: for days I’ve been slaving away at the computer (not my best friend, for starters), injecting into our weight management program a whole new slant on therapy that is based on brain imagery. Sophisticated medical scans have shown that when specific parts of the brain are either under or over active, for a variety of reasons, an identifiable pattern of attitude and behavior results-- interfering with efforts to lose weight. Accordingly, a series of specific correlating questions and answers can indicate how best to direct a client toward success. It has taken me days of no-blood but yes-sweat and tears, plus a few grouchy outbursts, to complete my project. I’m jazzed because IT’S DONE and because it is going to make weight management so much easier for our clients.

Another reason: I first heard about it on the Dr. Oz show and now I finally have one in my hot little hands. A Himalayan Salt Inhaler! I’ve never used an inhaler of any sort before. The closest I’ve come is using a snorkel tube in Hawaii, which I did not enjoy (breathing through the tube, that is. I did/do enjoy Hawaii.) Using this device recreates the benefit of speleotherapy, or salt cave therapy, which has been used for centuries to ease respiratory discomforts. I don’t actually have any of those (except for occasional dust-related sinus headaches), but I do have a THING for Tibet, and this salt is as close as I’m gonna get, much as I’d rather meet the Dalai Lama himself but what are the odds? I’m going to experiment to determine for myself if the moisture of air passing over the microscopic salt particles produces a therapeutic effect. If so, this is something I may end up recommending to our clients who use hypnotherapy to stop smoking!

Third reason: I admit I have a sorta odd business philosophy. I love helping people, and making money at it is secondary; so (if left unguarded by Frank) I’m generous to a fault. I guess it goes back to the “Give and ye shall receive” lesson from Bible study when I was, like, ten? But where I’m going with this is that I have found someone of like mind. He is giving me the opportunity to use TurboSonic treatments on an ongoing basis, asking in return only that I spread the word if/when I notice results. This machine purportedly provides a full body workout in ten minutes, equaling an hour of exercise. “Decades of Russian research and development indicate that regular use improves circulation, strength, energy, endurance, balance, coordination, flexibility, agility, and reduces body fat and fluid retention while toning tissue and increasing bone density.” Okay, okay, I was skeptical too, but also open minded and – so far -- I gotta admit I feel good! Really good! After only three go's at it. (I’m on top of the placebo effect possibility, so this isn’t me mentally kidding myself. There’s definitely something beneficial going on here, it’s just too soon to know what exactly. But I promise to keep you posted.)

Perfect timing, too, all this. Just when I was about to run out of interesting things to write about!

KISS - Keep it Simple (Sure...)

2010-07-01T11:04:00.000-07:00

I like simple. I really, really like simple. I used to like complex, when I was young and had enough energy to enjoy the challenge of complex. But at this stage of my life I really, really like simple.

Years ago I became aware of a book called The Five Love Languages, by Gary Chapman. I read it and a light went on in my head. It was easy to read, interesting, I could put myself and others I know into the categories identified by the author, and I could put it to immediate use. Best of all, it worked!

The concept? Simple! There are basically five ways of interacting on a personal level. They are: words of affirmation, quality time, physical touch, gifts, and deeds of service. These are like five language's, and we all "speak" one "fluently," meaning it is the language that makes us feel most loved. Unfortunately, if the person we love doesn't understand us when we speak the language that makes us feel loved, then that person doesn't feel loved because we aren't speaking his or her language. With me so far?

My love language, for example, is words of affirmation. My husband's is deeds of service. I can tell him nice things up one side and down the other, but it isn't until I do something for him... pour him a cup of coffee, find his keys, put a shirt and tie together, cook his favorite dinner -- that he feels loved. If he does things for me, he's speaking his language, not mine. It's when he says nice things to me that I feel loved.

So the point is to identify the language of the person you love, and make sure you are speaking his or her language , not your own. Likewise, he or she needs to identify your love language and use it with you. It takes effort, and practice. Effort, because it's much easier to just use our own language with someone else, than it is to learn to speak his or her language. Practice because this keeps the concept alive, and keeps us from reverting to what we've "spoken" in the past (that may not have worked so well). If you aren't willing to become bi-lingual, it's a pretty clear sign that you don't care much about the other person in the relationship. Which is why so many relationships fail. They are too often "all about me."

Relationships, by nature, are complex. Anything we can do to simplify them is an improvement, even if it means backing off and backing away. If you've ever watched a soap opera you'll be keenly ware of relationships spiraling, ever spiralling... out of control. Drama, drama, drama, nothing but problems, with no solutions in sight. (If, for example, Kirsten simply learned to speak Lance's love language and vice versa, there would be no story! ) Viewers get sucked into the show because, I believe, we all harbor a hint of hope at some level of our psyche. Sooner or later it just has to work out, right? So we keep watching. And hoping. And it's the writers' job to keep us on the hook, almost but never quite satisfied.

I don't watch soap operas ( for the same reason I don't play golf. Life is frustrating enough without it.) Simply put, every relationship rests upon needs that are or are not being met. Mutually. If they're not being met -- mutually -- it's time to move on. Life is not a soap opera -- unless you want it to be, since you're the writer. You can make it complex, or keep it simple.

Or change the channel. Watch the news... that's always good for a laugh.

So Help Me God - Or Not...

2010-06-29T11:55:00.000-07:00

I have a crush on the Dalai Lama. I love his smile, and his occasional giggle. I love the twinkle in his eye. I love his insight, his intelligence, and his honesty. In a recent interview I heard him talk about his gall bladder surgery, adding, "See? Some people think I have healing powers. It isn't true. I'm just a man. Not special. If I could heal, I would have healed myself without the surgery." And he laughed.

I love what he represents -- thousands of years of spirituality that predates and is reflected in Christianity. Although my major in school was psychology, I also studied all the major religions, and wrote my PhD thesis on the psychology of religion and its influence on the self-help movement. I was left with a lasting impression of the commonalities between religions -- Christianity and Buddhism, for example -- despite the fact that their differences are usually at the core of most discussions.

I don't believe in packaging religion and selling it like breakfast cereal -- "This one meets all your needs, and is far superior to anything else on the market. See the pretty picture on the box? And all it costs you is what you are willing to drop in the basket every Sunday morning, or the check you are willing to write to prove your love of God. " I don't think this is what either Buddha or Jesus quite had in mind for us.

When my daughter was young a friend invited her to church. She accepted, and later went to church camp with her friend. When she came home and told us she wanted to attend services regularly, we supported her, and went with her every week, even breaking into various discussion groups after the services. At one such time a couple was asked for a progress report on their efforts to convert their neighbors from their current denomination to this one. "We're working on it. I think they're coming along," we were told. Sorry, but that made me uncomfortable. It seemed to me like a group of brunettes trying to talk some blonds into dying their hair, as though dark brown is somehow superior to yellow. Hello? And people who are bald headed? Well, they may just be beyond saving, I suppose.

When we stopped attending that church, however, it was because the minister spent valuable pulpit time beseeching his flock to "give more generously" so that the church could purchase a new and glorious pipe organ that would outshine all others in our area. Excuse me? Give more generously so that we can feed more hungry families maybe, but bigger, shinier pipes, for Pete's sake? Puh-leese...

Years later I tried going back to the church where I had been baptized as a child. The current pastor was one of the worst speakers I've ever endured, and spent most of his sermon complaining about membership falling off so dramatically. "Bring in the sheep," he told the congregation! "If you can't convince someone to join us, let me know and I'll visit them personally. Maybe I can convince them!" Needless to say, this did not inspire me.

Still, there's something about a church that just... feels good. Especially if you can find one with stained glass windows and without TV monitors mounted at various locations for sharper viewing of the rock band up front and/or easier reading of the lyrics to contemporary songs that somehow seem shallow if you're... my age. I would say I've been spoiled by the Native American Sweat lodge ceremony, which hasn't changed in centuries except to substitute heavy carpeting for animal skins to cover the birch branch frames -- but over the years I've seen even that form of worship besmirched. Not only have non-native wannabes stripped it of its spiritual ambiance, but many Native Americans have also taken it in the wrong direction. Twenty-five years ago I had to earn the right to participate (by chopping and stacking firewood, and pulling weeds). The last time I considered revisiting the old stomping grounds I phoned ahead and was told, "Sure. $20 per person."

What this all boils down to is, I believe if we can't find inspiration inside ourselves, we're not going to find it outside ourselves either. If we can find it inside ourselves, we need to take it with us wherever we go -- because it's not gonna be there waiting for us.

Fortunately, every time I see the Dalai Lama, mine bubbles to the surface. That's why I have his picture framed and hanging on my wall.

A Church Wedding Brings Horses to My Mind

2010-06-27T15:02:00.001-07:00

I went to a wedding yesterday. I didn't know the bride or groom or anyone else who was there, for that matter --except my daughter-in-law, who asked me to be "her date" when my son wasn't able to go with her. It was a sweet wedding -- church with stained glass windows, organ music, traditional "Bridal March," white dress and veil, and the most adorable little flower girl you would ever wish to see. I loved it! I'm such a sap for that sort of thing. I had to dab at my eyes and couldn't even tell you why at the time.

Looking back though, I think it may have been because a wedding is such a turning point in the lives of two people who haven't the foggiest idea what lies ahead of them. They're young (or not), in love, filled with hopes, overwhelmed by dreams, absolutely certain that their marriage will be like no other! For those --like me, who have been there, done that -- the eyes may mist over a bit because we know better.

Weddings such as this one are rare today, I'm sorry to say. So many couples just choose to live together, or run off to the courthouse or to an in-and-out chapel somewhere. To each his/her own, of course. Frank and I had a very simple ceremony ourselves, but it wasn't the first for either of us. My first was as traditional as the one I went to yesterday, and it only lasted seven years, six and five-sixths of which were unhappy -- so who am I to say what's best and what's not? But that's not the point.

The point is that a wedding marks a new beginning, by virtue of which it also marks an ending. Two innocents who have been romancing each other cloaked in moonlight and love songs are now buckling in to partner up in the business of facing reality. Not always a smooth ride. So a wedding is a happy occasion, but also a sad one in a way.

Yesterday's blushing bride and glowing groom met through a dating service on line. Their first phone conversation lasted seven hours! They dated for two years before taking the big step. I genuinely wish them all the best. But at my age I've seen the rise and fall of so many marriages, this may be another reason why I fought yesterday to hold back tears. I have my views about what makes the difference between a good one and a bad one.

In my opinion, the marriage that lasts is the marriage of two people who, without even thinking about it, each put the other's happiness above their own.... who both put the happiness of the other above their own. Doesn't work if only one of them "gets" this. It absolutely must be reciprocal, and natural (as opposed to forced). Marriage is like two horses pulling a cart, where sometimes one is weaker so the other has to be stronger, one is tired so the other has to pull harder, and that switches off from time to time, working out evenly enough that the cart continues moving forward despite stops and starts, pot holes in the road, and an occasional storm that hits with or without relent. Each horse is looking out for the other. Neither one can make it "all about me."

I know for a fact that sometimes on an easy trail, a horse becomes complacent. Lets the mind wander. Maybe stubs a toe, which brings the outer world back into sharp focus. I also know sometimes a horse remains tense, hyper vigilant, spooking now and then or even running out of control. Putting a good team together means finding personalities that complement each other. One horse may calm the other down, or perk the other up, and they can then function more efficiently than either would without the other.

Energy is ever flowing, however. Changes are constant and erratic. A problem arises when the give and take between members of a team wobbles out of balance. If one carries the load for too long while the other slacks off and settles into a comfortable rut, the writing is on the wall and it ain't directions to the winner's circle. That's why horses must (repeat must) pay close, constant attention with the intention of staying on track and reaching their goal... together.

When I hear young people talk about how hard marriage can be I say, "Yes, yes, I know, I know. Frank and I are coming up on 35 years and we're still working at it." Divorce is difficult as well -- though in many ways much easier today than "back when." I say as long as a couple is willing to work at one (marriage) or the other (divorce) -- it's always better to build something you've committed to than to tear it down and go separate ways (often to repeat past mistakes).

Bottom line: There's nothing better than a good marriage and nothing worse than a bad one, but relationships don't steer themselves. We hold the reins. The responsibility rests in our hands.

The Mysteries of Life

2010-06-23T06:56:00.000-07:00

One of the cool things about blogging is that it's an avenue along which a writer can practice writing. "They" say to be a good writer, one must write regularly. Which only makes sense, if you think about it. How good a tennis player would you be if you only played now and then, compared to every day?

The challenge, I find, is deciding what to write about. Well, that's an easy one if something exciting has happened to you -- of course that's what you're going to write about! But what if nothing exciting is going on in your life? Then, it seems, you resort to writing about the ordinary.
I begin by asking myself, "So, what's on your mind, Ginny?" Today there are three things which, at first glance, seem unrelated. But maybe not.

1) Does anyone know, can anyone tell me, why birds will fly into a window pane of glass and fall to the ground dead, having broken their own necks? This happened three times within a two week period (months back), and it occurred to me that one of our trees has berries of some sort, and it might be that the birds ate the berries which somehow affected their brain (the way alcohol does), and they were drunk, so to speak. This theory makes more sense than the possibility of deliberate suicide, since there were three incidents spaced so closely in time. If it were just a matter of seeing the outdoors reflected in the glass and mistaking it for reality, that would make sense also, but then why only three birds over two weeks, instead of a bird now and then year round? It's a mystery to me. I was sitting in the living room two out of the three times, and I really hate when it happens. First there is the sound that occurs, then the fleeting hope that the bird survived, then the running to the window to look onto the ground, only to have my hopes dashed.

2) What in the world is going on with General McChrystal and Rolling Stone Magazine? As I understand it, a reporter was embedded in the General's workplace in Afghanistan for a month or two, observing as well as interviewing. He then wrote disparaging remarks that were made there regarding our President and his administration. I realize this is a serious no-no, because I've had family members in the military refuse to comment on the then/now sitting president, in observation of military regulations and out of fear of reprisal. So I'm thinking if McChrystal's people said what they are quoted as saying, what the hell were they thinking??? Factor in that McChrystal comes from black ops training and installation, and you would think that he would be particularly keen on discretion. Wouldn't you? It seems that he has flown into a pane of glass. But why?

3) I woke up a little after five this morning, happy to be awake because I had just had a nightmare. It had a holocaust theme to it, with a group of coal miners returning on a train to a scene where all their women and children had been... done away with... in a quite grizzly fashion. What the? Where did that come from? One theory is that bad dreams such as this one, is our brain's way of preparing us for future crises... providing an opportunity to rehearse our reactions so that, should the need arise, we will be able to deal with reality better. Hello! I'd rather skip the rehearsal, if you don't mind! If ever I need to totally fall apart, I'm sure I'll do quite well at it without practice. Another theory is that, because (thank God) our lives are pretty darned good -- we really do have it made in comparison to other cultures and other areas of the world -- bad dreams are a way of introducing some bad into the good, to create psychological balance (as in yin and yang -- In all bad there is good and in all good there is bad, and the balance is, Taoism teaches, what keeps the universe from spinning out of existence). So maybe a nightmare is Nature's way of helping us out? I could research this, of course, but I won't. Too many other things to do, with higher priority.

So those are the three things on my mind this morning, and I can see how the first two are interrelated, but the third has me stumped. I'm not Jewish, I'm not German, and in past life regression (a viable form of therapy often misused as entertainment or as source of undeserved income) I've never regressed to a time or place involving the holocaust. So I can't figure that one out, but I do have a busy day ahead of me so I'll distract myself, with all due respect to the underlying reality of the dream. One thing about life that I will never comprehend is man's inhumanity to man. If I dwell on it, however, I'm sure to have a crappy day and that serves no purpose that I can see.

So I'm changing my focus now to stop thinking about the bad, and to think about the good. Those who realize we actually have a choice are the fortunate ones. Reminds me of a quote I used in my book, The Rising Tide Model for Self-improvement -- "I cried at first... and then, it was such a beautiful day, that I forgot to be unhappy.." (Frances Noyes Hart (1890-1943)

My Exciting Story

2010-06-21T09:01:00.001-07:00

There's something that happens when I look at my horse and she looks at me. I've had horses before, and it didn't happen when our eyes met. It only happens with Brandi. There are certain pictures of her where I can see it. too. I show the photos to other people and ask, "Can you see it?" They almost always say something like, "Uhh, yeah, maybe." I have polite friends.

I don't know what "it" is, but it's not a visual thing because the same thing happens when I hear certain music. I get lost in certain music, and I mean "lost" in a good way. Maybe I get lost in Brandi's eyes, too.

One of the reasons I'm so happily married to my husband of 34 years is that, after playing tennis on our first date, we went to my place, drank wine coolers, and... listened to music. Till 3:00 a.m. He was the first person in my life to actually listen to my music with me. He got it! Factor in that he looked so much like John Denver he grew a moustache so people would stop telling him so, and poor Frank didn't stand a chance -- the man was mine!

So I'm writing about the "it" that happens rarely, but always in some spectacular way. It's kinda like a spark ignites on some level deep down inside, and you're different because of it. It happens when you least expect it. Like walking out of a social event a year or so back, and being introduced to Jennifer Lind by her husband, who knew my husband. Andrew said, "Jennifer is recording a CD of cowboy songs." Not country/western, he went on to explain. Cowboy. It happened. (She gets it!) Now I adore her.

So after obsessing over her CD when I was finally able to buy one (I actually bought 10 and gave one to the 9 most special people in my life), I eventually came back to my senses and now I only listen to it all the time. I don't know her well enough to say she's an angel, but I can unequivocally say she sings like one!

Now here's where asking you to understand "it" may begin to seem unreasonable of me. After seeing Jennifer perform "live" recently, I of course blogged about it, and sent Jennifer a link. She sent my blog to her mentor -- THE Randy Sparks. (If you don't know who that is, I suggest you find out, you cretin! And if you don't know what a cretin is, you need to find that out also.) Randy Sparks replied to Jennifer, and he sent me a CC. Can you imagine what happened when his name popped up on my list of incoming e-mail? That's right. "It" happened. An OMG electric moment. Randy Sparks!

But wait, there's more. Just in case you don't know this, which is hard for me to fathom, Randy Sparks gave John Denver his start (along with many others). JOHN DENVER!!! Now if you know me personally, you know how I feel about John. I mean there's no way you could understand how I feel about him, (unless you feel the same way, and then only maybe) but you certainly know about it because it's one of those things I never shut up about. So can you imagine my reaction when, in his e-mail, Randy said he was sending my blog to John's uncle, Dave Deutschendorf, who is a member of the New Christy Minstrels (as is Jennifer)? Talk about sparks -- they're now flyin' all over the place and it's not even 4th of July!

How can such a single, simple thing as a name on your monitor be so transforming? It's like I expect people to look at me differently now and say, "Hmmm... there's just something about you..." and I will think but not say, "Well DUH. I just got an e-mail from Randy Sparks!" Okay, okay, I will say it if I get the chance.

So, sorry, I can't explain what "it" is, and if I could, well that would be some kick ass writing. I just know that it is, to toss a little Zen your way. Randy shares "it" through his music, Jennifer projects it, and when John died, he left some of "it" behind for folks like me. Maybe "it" is the glue that holds our hearts together when they've been broken .

Let's be clear here - I am 68 years old and edging close to 69. So I am not a giggling girl in her teens, idolizing some special "packaged" people from afar. They're not performers I "like" - they are... well crap, words fail me. Except for when it comes to John, I can say this. He wasn't just a singer with a cute country way about him. John was Life with a capital L. John... got it. Fortunately some others who get it too, but there will never be another John. Thank God he lives on through his music. And if you don't get that, well, there's still hope. Listen to him sing.

Know how "I SEE you" took on special meaning in the popular movie Avatar? That's the way to HEAR good music.

Live Music Lives On

2010-06-20T10:33:00.000-07:00

We had such a good time last night with Jennifer Lind and The Hired Guns, who were entertaining at Abundance Vineyards in Lodi! I say "with" them not "watching" or "listening" to them, because it wasn't like they were there and we were here... we were clearly all in it together. Jennifer knows how to connect with her audience, and her love of music makes it come alive.

I love, love, love her voice, and I play her CD Cowboy State of Mind endlessly in my Ranger, mostly when I'm driving to/from the ranch where my horse is boarded. Sometimes I sing some of the songs to Brandi while we're horsing around. Using the term "sing" loosely, of course. I'll have to be careful never to let her hear Jennifer, or she might cowkick me for being such a piss-poor copycat.

One of the exciting things about Jennifer (besides her exquisite talent) is that Randy Sparks is her mentor. Randy Sparks knew John Denver, and in fact gave John his last name as a replacement for Dutchendorf. Since I know Jennifer, who knows Randy, who knew John, this gives me only three degrees of separation from my all time favorite, and it's a bonus that I love Randy's music and Jennifer a lot as well. But John Denver will always hold a special place in my heart.

I saw him perform on stage three times, at different stages of his career. The last time was after he and Annie had divorced, and it was obvious that some of his spark left him when she did. But I took his death so seriously, it saddened me so deeply, that my feelings were hurt when none of my friends called to see if I was doing okay, or came over to console me. I got through it by trying to focus on all the awesome music he left behind. I never tire of it.

Life is for the living, however, and after last night we intend to go to as many Jennifer Lind performances as possible. Not much can beat live music. She'll be back at Abundance Vineyards on July 24 with her band. It's truly my idea of a good time: Wear jeans, straddle a bench at a picnic table the way you'd sit in a saddle, eat whatever food you want to bring along, buy some mighty fine wine by the glass or bottle, dance if you want to, or watch others (from age 7 to 70 last night) dance to the beat (or sort of). How can it get any better?

Prior to Abundance, Jennifer will be appearing July 17 with Randy Sparks and some of the New Christy Minstrels at Micke Grove in Lodi -- a fundraiser for the zoo. I can hardly wait! When I was recently on a committee for my 50 year high school reunion, I ended up doing the "memory book." Randy gave me permission to include part of the lyrics from a duet he and Jennifer sing. My school chums loved the great message they found on the first page of their book:

Looking back, it's been one helluva ride.
I've had my 15 minutes and God knows I've tried.
I always go the extra mile to make up for whatever I lack,
And I'm inclined to smile, looking back.

If you want to check out what all my hoopla is about, go to http://www.jenniferlind.net/ . Then if you spot me at one of her shows, mosey on over and say howdy. How will you know who I am? Look for the cowgirl who's having the most fun! :-)

Mystery Solved, Problem Solved

2010-06-19T10:31:00.000-07:00

I'm losing my eyebrows. It's not like I'm taking them off, setting them down somewhere and forgetting where I put them. They're just... disappearing. Why? To find out the answer, I did the sensible thing: I googled.

One possibility, I learned, was thyroid disorder. I was overdue for my annual physical exam (one year overdue, actually), which includes blood work, so I called the doctor and made an appointment to meet with her once my test results were in her hot little hand. I began secretly hoping, well sort of hoping, that something innocuous but worthy of noninvasive attention would crop up in terms of my thyroid, because then some pill or other might bring my eyebrows back and make it easier for me to control my weight!

No such luck. Thyroid: Normal. Well, crap. That means I have to continue to eat less than when I was 20-30, and absent the hot fudge sundaes and mashed potatoes with gravy that, back then, made me feel really good instead of really, well, not good... about my weight. Okay, it was worth a try.

And the disappearing eyebrows? "Hormones," the doctor told me, adding dispassionately, "It's part of the aging process." Mystery solved. I smiled at her... she who is young enough to be my daughter. "So nothing I can do about it?" She suggested I have eyebrows tattooed on.

Uhhh... I don't think so, considering I've HAD a tattoo (on my ankle) and I found it FAR more painful than the gentle touch of an eyebrow pencil. Or eyebrow brush, I should say, since my daughter recently took my ancient-and pathetically-out-of-date pencil away from me and replaced it with an upscale-and-coolly-current powder that is brushed on. It's really sweet that she looks out for me that way.

Since I was born a month premature, with no fingernails, toenails, eyelashes or eyebrows, I guess I'm just coming full circle. As I continue to age I guess I'm going to have to keep an eye out for other missing parts. Heck, come to think of it, why can't I skinny down? I only weighed a little over four pounds when I was born!

But back to the eyebrows. Thank goodness for make-up. Problem solved.

Only now I'm feeling guilty because I've been blaming the poor dog for all the annoying little hairs I find every day on the furniture and floors.

Humerous Housecleaning Horror Stories

2010-06-17T08:55:00.000-07:00

So what I'm grappling with recently is whether or not to find another housekeeper. I've used services in the past who send a crew, I've used a husband/wife team, and I've used an individual. The husband and wife lasted the longest (almost three years) but I, in fact, grew fond of them and it seems they saw it as an opening to slack off. When it reached the point where I was cleaning up after them every week instead of vice versa, it just started to seem silly.

My funniest housekeeping story is this one though. The woman named Ethel. I came home unexpectedly once when she was here, and caught her "resting" on the couch. She jumped a foot and said she was just taking a little break. I didn't have the heart to tell her it was a pretty noisy break, what with the snoring and all. Nor did I mention the TV being turned on, showing her favorite soap opera. I did let her know I wouldn't be needing her anymore, paid her, and that was that. Until...

A few months later Frank and I bought a new couch. We had to tip the old one on its side to get it through the door, and when we did we found, shoved into the underneath part, a half empty bottle of scotch and a half empty pack of Dentyn gum. Uh-huh...

My most recent experience was odd from the beginning. In the past I had always noticed how nice the house smells after it has been professionally cleaned. Something about the products used, I imagine. But this time, hmmm.... there was no pleasant fragrance lingering in the air to assure me my money was being well spent. "She's probably using things that are scent-free... better for my allergies, " I rationalized. I also missed the nice squeaky clean feel of the freshly mopped floor on my bare feet. "Just a difference in the product," I assumed. She had, after all, come highly recommended. (Thinking back, so had Ethel!)

Then one day when this woman had (supposedly) finished mopping the hallway, she neglected to put the throw rug back in place. It was draped over a piece of exercise equipment nearby, with the rubberized back showing I noticed marks that indicated my precious kitty cat had been using it as a peeing place, so I put it in the washer, and thought, "I wonder how long that's been going on." I checked the floor to see if there was any nasty smell there, and sure enough, it smelled to high heaven. "Odd," I thought, since it had just been mopped. Supposedly.

So I grabbed an old towel and rubbed at it with a bit of 409. The rag came away downright dirty. I tried a spot in the living room. Dirty. The kitchen. Dirty. That was when I realized, in retrospect, that not only was this house cleaner not using cleaning product, what she was using was an old fashioned string mop and a bucket of water. With, apparently, nothing else in it. She was just smearing dirty water around, is what she was doing. And getting paid for it.

I had never checked up on her before, just assumed she was doing her job. This time, I decided to have a look. Went to the spare bedroom and found... no scotch or gum, but dust, untouched. Just resting in its place... on every flat surface. The waste can had been emptied, but tiny threads were still on the carpet where I had done some sewing a few days before. She hadn't even vacuumed. Another housekeeper down the tube, with pay check in hand. Her last pay check from me!

That was a year or so ago, and I've been doing my own house cleaning since then. Call me crazy, but I actually enjoy housecleaning. Thing is, I don't have the energy I had in my younger years, so what used to take me hours, now takes days. And totally wears me out. Our place is an indoor/outdoor arrangement, with a cat and a dog that thoroughly enjoy it along with us -- so it's not easy keep up with the signs of life. Okay, it's impossible, considering I'm not as young as I used to be -- "No spring chic" as my brother likes to put it. And I do have other demands placed upon me that usually keep me tethered to my computer or, on a good day, deep into a good book or riding atop my horse.

So here's the dilemma: Do I trust another person or crew? Or do I save my money and clean my own house? It's not that I mind taking another chance at hiring someone, but what I do want to avoid is the awkward letting go of that someone when the arrangement doesn't work out. Ever notice how starting a relationship is so much easier than ending one?

Kind of like how easy it is to gain weight, and how hard it is to lose it. But that's a blog for another day...