Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Don't Label People With Down Syndrome
Don't Label People With Down Syndrome is an important column written by a parent with a son affected by Down Syndrome. Labels are important, and so is the reality of raising any child.
Friday, October 26, 2012
The Legacy of Holly Near and Women's Music
It's been a long, long time since I made it to a concert, but I went to see Holly Near perform on Wednesday night. Her lyrics still inspire me, her songs are still made for a roomful of women harmonizing, and her political vision still encompasses a wide variety of issues and insights.
I first heard Holly's music in Greeley, Colorado, known for Monfort's stock yards and the smelly sugar beet plant. We Colorado folks had never heard of Women's Music, but I was lucky enough to have a housemate from the Bay Area. She brought albums from Cris Williamson, Meg Christian, Margie Adam, Kate Wolf and others, and we played them 24/7.
My housemates and I were members of a theatre troupe that put on improvisational shows for Deaf and hearing children, and I remember signing Cris Williamson's Song of the Soul in one of our shows. We sang and lip-synced and signed and danced and loved and became politicized through this wonderful new music.
So did the kittens. Our upstairs housemates had a litter of little ones. One afternoon, we were playing Meg Christian's "Leaping Lesbians" and looked up to see the kittens sneaking down the stairs with huge eyes and poofy tails, to find out just WHAT this woman was singing about!
I went from driving my dorm roommate crazy with Kris Kristofferson to playing Women's Music on my little record player. It wasn't even a stereo!
When I moved to Minneapolis-St. Paul in 1978, I found a community of women who regularly attended concerts by women from Olivia Records, as well as Claudia Schmidt, Kate Wolf, Alive!, Sweet Honey in the Rock, Teresa Trull, Kay Gardner and many others, as well as local women like Liz Olds and Ann Reed. I've seen Holly perform in venues as small as our church basement women's coffeehouse and as large as the Michigan Women's Music Festival, which drew 10,000 women for a long weekend in August.
I remember the sign language interpreter giggling her way through Meg's song about menstrual cramps. "oooowwwaaahhhoooowww!"
I had never heard of Ukiah, California, but it will always be on the map for me because of a song (Water Come Down) about riding the irrigation water down the ditches, and how Holly has "never felt anything quite like that since!"
I remember sitting next to my housemate in our church basement coffeehouse, each of us breathing an awed sigh of recognition when Holly signed "family" in the song about looking up to her sister, "You Got Me Flying." I remember Timothy Near and Susan Freundlich signing a song together, weaving the signs and their bodies together in a way that was part Sign and part dance.
I remember women filling several sections of a huge divided classroom at the University of Minnesota, and Holly dividing us into sections to sing "Nicolia". The winter night was dark and cold, but the harmonies were beautiful and I always came away from concerts high, empowered and unable to sleep for needing to sing.
I remember carefully going through every album looking for a song that was sufficiently lesbian to satisfy my discomfort with the Top 40, yet subtle enough to teach to a high school choir. Somehow, Something About the Women, which seemed safe enough to my naive eyes (after all, I was comparing it to "Leapin' Lesbians", "Golden Thread" and the Lesbian Concentrate album!) didn't fool that advisor one bit! She insisted on hearing all my songs privately from then on, before letting me play them for the students! In the early 1990's, when I worked in another high school, I was out to the entire school population, students and staff. And there were out gay kids who were much braver than I had to be! Schools are still not safe for GLBTQ students, but it they do have visible and proud role models now.
I remember not really being clear about the ramifications of the shootings at Kent State until I heard It Could Have Been Me Every song taught me something new about this politically aware new world I was entering. Holly's songs made me think about issues, history and how everyone has their own story to tell, whether their "skin is golden, like mine will never be", whether they are a teacher in some Third World country or a poet continuing to sing even after the junta shot his hands so he could no longer play his guitar.
I found my heart in lyrics that promised that Someday One Will Do and gave me hope that someday, someone would "Sit With Me" through the night. I knew one woman who called that the "co-dependency" song, but I always thought that label was pretty cold. Everyone needs to be able to fall apart sometimes outside of therapy, even in therapy-happy Minneapolis!
Tonight, remembering songs from thirty years ago, and going through the discography to find their titles, I still hear each song in my head, bringing back a time of vibrant community, hope and despair, personal, political, ethical and spiritual growth. Looking back, alone or with other women, I realize that we really did make a difference in this world. Holly and Cris and Meg and the others were leaders, but each of us was changed irrevocably by the music and the times, and we all made a difference.
Women's music, most particularly Holly's consistency, wisdom and humor, showed me the way. I will never forget the music or the experience of sitting in that auditorium, singing about a young woman who learned to organize!
Thank you, Holly. We're still here.
I first heard Holly's music in Greeley, Colorado, known for Monfort's stock yards and the smelly sugar beet plant. We Colorado folks had never heard of Women's Music, but I was lucky enough to have a housemate from the Bay Area. She brought albums from Cris Williamson, Meg Christian, Margie Adam, Kate Wolf and others, and we played them 24/7.
My housemates and I were members of a theatre troupe that put on improvisational shows for Deaf and hearing children, and I remember signing Cris Williamson's Song of the Soul in one of our shows. We sang and lip-synced and signed and danced and loved and became politicized through this wonderful new music.
So did the kittens. Our upstairs housemates had a litter of little ones. One afternoon, we were playing Meg Christian's "Leaping Lesbians" and looked up to see the kittens sneaking down the stairs with huge eyes and poofy tails, to find out just WHAT this woman was singing about!
I went from driving my dorm roommate crazy with Kris Kristofferson to playing Women's Music on my little record player. It wasn't even a stereo!
When I moved to Minneapolis-St. Paul in 1978, I found a community of women who regularly attended concerts by women from Olivia Records, as well as Claudia Schmidt, Kate Wolf, Alive!, Sweet Honey in the Rock, Teresa Trull, Kay Gardner and many others, as well as local women like Liz Olds and Ann Reed. I've seen Holly perform in venues as small as our church basement women's coffeehouse and as large as the Michigan Women's Music Festival, which drew 10,000 women for a long weekend in August.
I remember the sign language interpreter giggling her way through Meg's song about menstrual cramps. "oooowwwaaahhhoooowww!"
I had never heard of Ukiah, California, but it will always be on the map for me because of a song (Water Come Down) about riding the irrigation water down the ditches, and how Holly has "never felt anything quite like that since!"
I remember sitting next to my housemate in our church basement coffeehouse, each of us breathing an awed sigh of recognition when Holly signed "family" in the song about looking up to her sister, "You Got Me Flying." I remember Timothy Near and Susan Freundlich signing a song together, weaving the signs and their bodies together in a way that was part Sign and part dance.
I remember women filling several sections of a huge divided classroom at the University of Minnesota, and Holly dividing us into sections to sing "Nicolia". The winter night was dark and cold, but the harmonies were beautiful and I always came away from concerts high, empowered and unable to sleep for needing to sing.
I remember carefully going through every album looking for a song that was sufficiently lesbian to satisfy my discomfort with the Top 40, yet subtle enough to teach to a high school choir. Somehow, Something About the Women, which seemed safe enough to my naive eyes (after all, I was comparing it to "Leapin' Lesbians", "Golden Thread" and the Lesbian Concentrate album!) didn't fool that advisor one bit! She insisted on hearing all my songs privately from then on, before letting me play them for the students! In the early 1990's, when I worked in another high school, I was out to the entire school population, students and staff. And there were out gay kids who were much braver than I had to be! Schools are still not safe for GLBTQ students, but it they do have visible and proud role models now.
I remember not really being clear about the ramifications of the shootings at Kent State until I heard It Could Have Been Me Every song taught me something new about this politically aware new world I was entering. Holly's songs made me think about issues, history and how everyone has their own story to tell, whether their "skin is golden, like mine will never be", whether they are a teacher in some Third World country or a poet continuing to sing even after the junta shot his hands so he could no longer play his guitar.
I found my heart in lyrics that promised that Someday One Will Do and gave me hope that someday, someone would "Sit With Me" through the night. I knew one woman who called that the "co-dependency" song, but I always thought that label was pretty cold. Everyone needs to be able to fall apart sometimes outside of therapy, even in therapy-happy Minneapolis!
Tonight, remembering songs from thirty years ago, and going through the discography to find their titles, I still hear each song in my head, bringing back a time of vibrant community, hope and despair, personal, political, ethical and spiritual growth. Looking back, alone or with other women, I realize that we really did make a difference in this world. Holly and Cris and Meg and the others were leaders, but each of us was changed irrevocably by the music and the times, and we all made a difference.
Women's music, most particularly Holly's consistency, wisdom and humor, showed me the way. I will never forget the music or the experience of sitting in that auditorium, singing about a young woman who learned to organize!
Thank you, Holly. We're still here.
Friday, June 22, 2012
Quiet
Cool rainy night in Seattle, listening to Carrie Newcomer. Sore, stiff knee from a collision with a running dog this afternoon. Damp puppy snoozing on the floor across the room. House is very quiet.
Orcas Island theme on Gmail usually represents a foggy, gray island world. This reminds me of a trip to the BWCA years ago. Early morning, thick fog on the water. So quiet. I took a canoe out, and one of the women with me snapped a picture of my silhouette in the gray.
We have forgotten that sort of quiet in this noisy, city world. I have forgotten it, but wake occasionally at 3 a.m. to stick my head out the window. I enjoy the moments when the city is closest to that peace.
Orcas Island theme on Gmail usually represents a foggy, gray island world. This reminds me of a trip to the BWCA years ago. Early morning, thick fog on the water. So quiet. I took a canoe out, and one of the women with me snapped a picture of my silhouette in the gray.
We have forgotten that sort of quiet in this noisy, city world. I have forgotten it, but wake occasionally at 3 a.m. to stick my head out the window. I enjoy the moments when the city is closest to that peace.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Dreaming An Ancient Land
The Mountain was out this afternoon. Stevie and I went down to the dog beach on Lake Washington. While he herded Chuckits and puppies, I contemplated the buildings that populate the shore on Mercer Island, and watched clouds play tag around the peak on the horizon.
I have been to wilderness lakes, where there are no buildings among the trees, and the touch of humans, while still present, is lighter. Still, it is difficult for me to imagine these hills as they must have been before the Europeans came. I picture dense forests, cut by paths, but no paved roads or freeways. I picture abundant wildlife, probably including species now extinct. I think there must have been a few canoes on the lake, especially in the early morning quiet, but certainly no sea planes taking off and landing, over and over again.
I have a hard time imagining this land with no cities, no clear cuts, no freeways. If Jean Auel's Clan of the Cave Bear series did nothing else for me, it provided hints of a landscape that was in balance, where humans existed, even thrived, but were still small potatoes in terms of their destructive effect on the Earth. In spite of this inability of mine, I still find myself trying to picture such a verdant wilderness every time I sit on the lake shore. That world is lost to us forever, and as I do not expect to live long enough to see us populate some other planet -- as yet unruined -- I feel that loss deeply.
The Mountain sometimes used to appear on the horizon with a clarity that I have not seen in many years. There is too much city and smog between the beach in northeast Seattle and the volcanic mountain that rises one hundred miles to the southeast.
Smog fills the valleys once filled by trees. A sunny day does not remove all of my sorrow.
I have been to wilderness lakes, where there are no buildings among the trees, and the touch of humans, while still present, is lighter. Still, it is difficult for me to imagine these hills as they must have been before the Europeans came. I picture dense forests, cut by paths, but no paved roads or freeways. I picture abundant wildlife, probably including species now extinct. I think there must have been a few canoes on the lake, especially in the early morning quiet, but certainly no sea planes taking off and landing, over and over again.
I have a hard time imagining this land with no cities, no clear cuts, no freeways. If Jean Auel's Clan of the Cave Bear series did nothing else for me, it provided hints of a landscape that was in balance, where humans existed, even thrived, but were still small potatoes in terms of their destructive effect on the Earth. In spite of this inability of mine, I still find myself trying to picture such a verdant wilderness every time I sit on the lake shore. That world is lost to us forever, and as I do not expect to live long enough to see us populate some other planet -- as yet unruined -- I feel that loss deeply.
The Mountain sometimes used to appear on the horizon with a clarity that I have not seen in many years. There is too much city and smog between the beach in northeast Seattle and the volcanic mountain that rises one hundred miles to the southeast.
Smog fills the valleys once filled by trees. A sunny day does not remove all of my sorrow.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Dog Beach
The beach at the dog park is never a dull place. Dogs love the beach, and there is always a lot of action. With the coming of warmer weather, the beach has become even livelier.
A tiny Pomeranian urges his person to throw the ball so he can swim after it, even though the wind is kicking up significant waves.
A lanky Great Dane wades out far beyond where the labs start to swim. Flip, the little Jack Russell Terrier, swims after his orange ball, nothing above water but his head, his tiny stump of a tail ruddering behind him.
Joe, the dog walker. wades out with his pack, looking forward to the warmth that will make human swimming possible. Two puppies play tag over and under the benches and driftwood logs, king of the mountain as much a part of the game as chase-me.
A beautiful Golden Retriever puppy, half grown and chubby with baby fat, scampers her way into every group of people and dogs, too young to worry about manners, human or canine. In my book, even a wet, sandy puppy is worth a cuddle. Doggie smiles are joyful by definition.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Spring Alley
Stevie wanted to go stare at chickens this morning. Border Collies may choose not to bark, chase, or show wriggly excitement but they ALWAYS stare. The chickens stare back. . .
When I gave into this side trip from our morning walk, it led me to a spring adventure. The morning was crisp, but the sun was warm. The sky was oh so blue and the forsythia outside the window was brilliant.
I’d noticed an alleyway in this neighborhood of no alleys, right across from the chicken coop, I couldn’t see where it lead, where it ended, so we had to explore. I am an alley walker from way back.
We woke the neighborhood with barking dogs who bellowed from behind wooden fences. A sweet Golden Retriever with a gray face dashed the fence and then sat for pets. Nothing sweeter in this world than an aging Golden.
The crows didn’t follow us too far up the alley, so aside from the dogs, it was quiet. I took mobs of pictures of spring flowers, wooden fences creating patterns, light and shadows created by early sun on profusions of fruit tree blossoms, of ivies and ground covers, of tree trunk textures and roads leading into distance. Unfortunately, my cell camera wasn’t up to the job, and most of the photos didn’t live up to their potential. I still had a great time.
The morning sparkled with sunlight, with night-fallen raindrops, with promise for a gorgeous day and impending summer heat. Stevie and I have a new morning route to enjoy.
The crows didn’t follow us too far up the alley, so aside from the dogs, it was quiet. I took mobs of pictures of spring flowers, wooden fences creating patterns, light and shadows created by early sun on profusions of fruit tree blossoms, of ivies and ground covers, of tree trunk textures and roads leading into distance. Unfortunately, my cell camera wasn’t up to the job, and most of the photos didn’t live up to their potential. I still had a great time.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Familiar Faces, Forgotten Names
Sometimes, late at night, when I’m too tired to do anything more constructive, I google the names of people I used to know. My searches are limited to those whose last names I remember, to the few women whose names didn’t change, to those whose names are uncommon enough that I have any hope of finding the right person.
I remember some names from grammar school, including that of my seventh grade locker partner, but most of the names from my college dorm are lost to me.
My efforts are most rewarding when I can find a picture; it is fun to see how people look twenty-five years later. Sometimes names are familiar, but I don’t remember the faces or the personalities. Sometimes, I know I recognize the face, but there are no memories to give the picture a story. Other faces prompt a surprised response of, “OMG, I’d know her anywhere!”
One friend I looked for was someone I couldn’t picture in my memory, but when I finally found a picture, I was like, “Oh, of course!” I found the class clown from high school (now a statistician and physicist :^), and I recognized him immediately, but another classmate didn't have a clue.
I also enjoy finding out what kind of work people do; does the geeky boy with the black-framed glasses work as a scientist or computer programmer? Is the girl who was such a good artist working in a field that showcases her talent? And as a lesbian, I always need to read between the lines, “Are any of those folks gay?”
This week, I found a blog about a friend's fight against Inflammatory Breast Cancer. The blog ends suddenly just a few months ago. I have found no obituary, so I hope she's busy fighting hard, and is still out there, hoping to share her gifts with the world once more. I had rarely thought of Suzanne in the past few years, and I have only a handful of memories reminding me who she was, but those sparkling eyes and that impish smile should have another 50 years to brighten this world. Inflammatory Breast Cancer is nasty stuff.
I remember a slightly chubby woman with auburn curls, but I’d forgotten the heart shape of her face, the smiling blue eyes, and the liveliness of her personality.
I first met Suzanne at the Peace Camp. As I remember, she showed up and slept there alone one night and wrote something memorable in the camp log. I remember people talking about how wonderful her log entry was, although I don’t remember its content. I think it was spiritual and poetic, all about the dreams the focus of the camp inspired for her.
She gave me a couple of bowls and a small pitcher that she’d made; she was an artist and a potter. I kept those for years, always carefully placing their earth-toned colors on my maple-stained bookcase.
I remember hanging out in the big house she and other women from the Peace Camp rented off Franklin Avenue. I don’t remember where she was from, or if she had an accent, but I remember that she phrased things with intensity and clarity.
Suzanne was close to her father. I was visiting a college friend in Chicago when he died, and I thought about Suzanne all day; somehow I knew that she was in pain, even across the miles. When she changed her name to reflect her lesbian identity, she kept the initial of his name in his honor.
We went camping together once, but I don’t remember where. Maybe Lake Maria State Park, although it was horribly buggy in the summer. I remember a night when I woke up to autumn frost and dawn beauty at Lake Maria, but I think I was alone that trip.
Vague memories, and not very many of them. When I saw her picture on the blog, I was surprised to see that her hair is now completely gray, but that those blue eyes, eyes I hadn’t thought about in thirty years, are still intelligent and full of life. I’d forgotten the shape of her face, the crooked smile when she was up to something, the warmth of her personality, but all that came back when I saw the pictures.
I wasn’t surprised that she lives in the country; we all wanted that back then. It took me a few minutes to get the joke – I didn’t realize she had nothing on under that apron – but I laughed at the playful picture of her ironing, eyes aglint with humor. Apparently “Naked Therapy” is a crucial part of her treatment!
The blog is full of pictures of, and comments from, the many friends who accompany Suzanne to chemo treatments. She is often dressed in the brightest of colors. Clearly she is very loved (that doesn’t surprise me – if there is anything that comes back to me, it is the warmth of her personality), and I’m glad for that. I downloaded a couple of pictures for mementoes, choosing the ones with the smile that identified her as the friend I knew long ago.
I’ll probably think of Suzanne more over the next few months than I’ve thought about her in 25 years. I hope she is still fighting, and hopefully winning. I wish her the best.
The web is ever-changing. I've learned from experience that it pays to continue those late-night searches. Every once in a while I am rewarded by a glimpse of someone I knew long ago. These glimpses give me history, perhaps a bit of closure, a continued feeling of community.
I am especially touched to find that we idealistic feminist activists are graying, mature, laughing and living in a world we helped change just a tiny bit for the better. We are writers, teachers, activists, mothers, sisters and lovers. We are women and we still roar.
I remember some names from grammar school, including that of my seventh grade locker partner, but most of the names from my college dorm are lost to me.
My efforts are most rewarding when I can find a picture; it is fun to see how people look twenty-five years later. Sometimes names are familiar, but I don’t remember the faces or the personalities. Sometimes, I know I recognize the face, but there are no memories to give the picture a story. Other faces prompt a surprised response of, “OMG, I’d know her anywhere!”
One friend I looked for was someone I couldn’t picture in my memory, but when I finally found a picture, I was like, “Oh, of course!” I found the class clown from high school (now a statistician and physicist :^), and I recognized him immediately, but another classmate didn't have a clue.
I also enjoy finding out what kind of work people do; does the geeky boy with the black-framed glasses work as a scientist or computer programmer? Is the girl who was such a good artist working in a field that showcases her talent? And as a lesbian, I always need to read between the lines, “Are any of those folks gay?”
This week, I found a blog about a friend's fight against Inflammatory Breast Cancer. The blog ends suddenly just a few months ago. I have found no obituary, so I hope she's busy fighting hard, and is still out there, hoping to share her gifts with the world once more. I had rarely thought of Suzanne in the past few years, and I have only a handful of memories reminding me who she was, but those sparkling eyes and that impish smile should have another 50 years to brighten this world. Inflammatory Breast Cancer is nasty stuff.
I remember a slightly chubby woman with auburn curls, but I’d forgotten the heart shape of her face, the smiling blue eyes, and the liveliness of her personality.
I first met Suzanne at the Peace Camp. As I remember, she showed up and slept there alone one night and wrote something memorable in the camp log. I remember people talking about how wonderful her log entry was, although I don’t remember its content. I think it was spiritual and poetic, all about the dreams the focus of the camp inspired for her.
She gave me a couple of bowls and a small pitcher that she’d made; she was an artist and a potter. I kept those for years, always carefully placing their earth-toned colors on my maple-stained bookcase.
I remember hanging out in the big house she and other women from the Peace Camp rented off Franklin Avenue. I don’t remember where she was from, or if she had an accent, but I remember that she phrased things with intensity and clarity.
Suzanne was close to her father. I was visiting a college friend in Chicago when he died, and I thought about Suzanne all day; somehow I knew that she was in pain, even across the miles. When she changed her name to reflect her lesbian identity, she kept the initial of his name in his honor.
We went camping together once, but I don’t remember where. Maybe Lake Maria State Park, although it was horribly buggy in the summer. I remember a night when I woke up to autumn frost and dawn beauty at Lake Maria, but I think I was alone that trip.
Vague memories, and not very many of them. When I saw her picture on the blog, I was surprised to see that her hair is now completely gray, but that those blue eyes, eyes I hadn’t thought about in thirty years, are still intelligent and full of life. I’d forgotten the shape of her face, the crooked smile when she was up to something, the warmth of her personality, but all that came back when I saw the pictures.
I wasn’t surprised that she lives in the country; we all wanted that back then. It took me a few minutes to get the joke – I didn’t realize she had nothing on under that apron – but I laughed at the playful picture of her ironing, eyes aglint with humor. Apparently “Naked Therapy” is a crucial part of her treatment!
The blog is full of pictures of, and comments from, the many friends who accompany Suzanne to chemo treatments. She is often dressed in the brightest of colors. Clearly she is very loved (that doesn’t surprise me – if there is anything that comes back to me, it is the warmth of her personality), and I’m glad for that. I downloaded a couple of pictures for mementoes, choosing the ones with the smile that identified her as the friend I knew long ago.
I’ll probably think of Suzanne more over the next few months than I’ve thought about her in 25 years. I hope she is still fighting, and hopefully winning. I wish her the best.
The web is ever-changing. I've learned from experience that it pays to continue those late-night searches. Every once in a while I am rewarded by a glimpse of someone I knew long ago. These glimpses give me history, perhaps a bit of closure, a continued feeling of community.
I am especially touched to find that we idealistic feminist activists are graying, mature, laughing and living in a world we helped change just a tiny bit for the better. We are writers, teachers, activists, mothers, sisters and lovers. We are women and we still roar.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
I. Want.
I’m pissed off and depressed. My toes are definitely fat, on both feet now. Is this the beginning? Will I have any time past this summer to do the things I want to do?
I want to drive over to Winthrop and watch the stars at night. I want to go to the beach, maybe even down to Oregon see two of my favorite Border Collies. I want to take Stevie for lots of walks on Whidbey Island; me, who barely has the energy to walk the half mile to the lake and back. I can breathe better over there. Maybe I’ll be able to walk a little; if I ever get it together to go.
I want to ride a horse wild along the sand. I want to sled down a snowy hill and have it be fun; I want to do all those bumps and tumbles without my back hurting. I want to drive a long, long way and see new places. I want to see the East Coast in all its autumn splendor. I want to see what is so beautiful about New Hampshire and the White Mountains, the rustic parts of Vermont, and the rural beauty of northern New York State.
I want to brush and love an old horse, and feel the warm solidity of an equine hug. I want to play with kittens and scritch a cow and make Stevie very, very happy several days in a row.
I want to go back to Colorado, sit on the porch in Bun Gun Zhing Wak and watch the fog make all the ridges visible, ridge by ridge by tree-crested ridge. I want to sit in the woods in Idaho and talk to the chickadees. I want. I want.
I want to eat anything I want to eat and have it feed me. I want to have a steak, not too well done, and eat some really good chicken, not that shit in the QFC deli. I want eggs and potatoes over a campfire that I built and tended. I want to sleep in the truck and wake to the cold morning having slept well through the rain. I want to write poems of which Phebe would be proud.
I want to go to Alaska, in the winter, and ride a dog sled. I want to go kayaking somewhere warm, where the water is an impossible shade of turquoise and porpoises play around my boat. I want to go swimming with dolphins and have conversations with Orcas. I want to know that I’m going to go to the Bridge, and see all my kids again. What I wouldn’t give to hug Lucky again, laugh at Little Girl’s antics and feel her warm little body solid against my chest. I want to run my hands through Myrddin’s silky hair. God I miss those guys.
I want to know that what I’m posting is really awesome writing and that my soul is bare for all the doubters to believe. I want to feel a running horse between my thighs and see blue and golden Columbines parted in a swath beneath our feet. I want to be tumbled by the waves on a Mexican beach, and play with tiny sand crabs while the sun and surf wash over my naked body.
I want to see England’s Lake District, eat cheese in Paris and watch a Mediterranean Sea lap the hull of a small sailboat that I can guide with skill and grace. I want to fly above the clouds and swim below the waves. I want to explore a coral forest and see all the tropical fish. I want to ride through the Methow until I’m so dirty and so brown and so strong and so wiry that the tourists mistake me for a native.
I want to live to be an old woman. I have to live to have silver hair; it is my birthright. I want to stand on the cliffs of Dover, feel the wind against my goose-bumped arms, and hear Vera Lynn singing to the gulls. I want to go to a Holly Near concert and sing with the women. I want to sit on a Michigan hillside and hear Cris’ voice reaching for the most distant of planets.
I want to raise my voice and sing along, hearing the effortless harmonies in a roomful of women who love women. I want to sit by my lover and hold her hand and lean against her shoulder and feel laughter bubbling up in my throat because life is so wonderful and women sing together so well. I want to go home from the concert, still high on all that energy, and write poetry until dawn, with my lover asleep next to me in the bed.
I want the world to see me for who I really am, and know that finally, completely, the lies have been vanquished. I want to grow, I want to live, I want to dream, I want to write, I want to sing, I want to sign, I want to dive through the waves like a flying fish and come up laughing for more, again and again and again.
I want to drive over to Winthrop and watch the stars at night. I want to go to the beach, maybe even down to Oregon see two of my favorite Border Collies. I want to take Stevie for lots of walks on Whidbey Island; me, who barely has the energy to walk the half mile to the lake and back. I can breathe better over there. Maybe I’ll be able to walk a little; if I ever get it together to go.
I want to ride a horse wild along the sand. I want to sled down a snowy hill and have it be fun; I want to do all those bumps and tumbles without my back hurting. I want to drive a long, long way and see new places. I want to see the East Coast in all its autumn splendor. I want to see what is so beautiful about New Hampshire and the White Mountains, the rustic parts of Vermont, and the rural beauty of northern New York State.
Bryce canyon at sunrise by Jon Sullivan
I want to sit in a desert bare canyon, near a warm shallow stream and I want to see Bryce Canyon in the snow. I want to feel the sun hot on my back, like I almost felt today. I want to hold scads of wiggly puppies and get lots of kisses, paws-in-the-face love. I want to hold a bunny.
I want to brush and love an old horse, and feel the warm solidity of an equine hug. I want to play with kittens and scritch a cow and make Stevie very, very happy several days in a row.
I want to go back to Colorado, sit on the porch in Bun Gun Zhing Wak and watch the fog make all the ridges visible, ridge by ridge by tree-crested ridge. I want to sit in the woods in Idaho and talk to the chickadees. I want. I want.
I want to eat anything I want to eat and have it feed me. I want to have a steak, not too well done, and eat some really good chicken, not that shit in the QFC deli. I want eggs and potatoes over a campfire that I built and tended. I want to sleep in the truck and wake to the cold morning having slept well through the rain. I want to write poems of which Phebe would be proud.
I want to go to Alaska, in the winter, and ride a dog sled. I want to go kayaking somewhere warm, where the water is an impossible shade of turquoise and porpoises play around my boat. I want to go swimming with dolphins and have conversations with Orcas. I want to know that I’m going to go to the Bridge, and see all my kids again. What I wouldn’t give to hug Lucky again, laugh at Little Girl’s antics and feel her warm little body solid against my chest. I want to run my hands through Myrddin’s silky hair. God I miss those guys.
I want to know that what I’m posting is really awesome writing and that my soul is bare for all the doubters to believe. I want to feel a running horse between my thighs and see blue and golden Columbines parted in a swath beneath our feet. I want to be tumbled by the waves on a Mexican beach, and play with tiny sand crabs while the sun and surf wash over my naked body.
Rocky mountain columbine by Dr. Thomas G. Barnes, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service
Just once, I want to wear a bra bigger than a -AAA, and feel like a girl with boobs. Just once, mind you; I’m sure it will be a passing fancy. I want my hands to find the words easily, signing quickly and gracefully, and learn how to mimic a cat trotting across the street.
I want to see England’s Lake District, eat cheese in Paris and watch a Mediterranean Sea lap the hull of a small sailboat that I can guide with skill and grace. I want to fly above the clouds and swim below the waves. I want to explore a coral forest and see all the tropical fish. I want to ride through the Methow until I’m so dirty and so brown and so strong and so wiry that the tourists mistake me for a native.
In The Wood by Petr Kratochvil
I want to travel back in time and swim through Glenwood’s pool underwater, eyes open and soothed by the minerals, still unsullied by chlorine. I want to laugh with my aunties and tease my uncles just once more. I want to hold a baby, laugh with a toddler and answer a four year old’s questions every night for a year.I want to live to be an old woman. I have to live to have silver hair; it is my birthright. I want to stand on the cliffs of Dover, feel the wind against my goose-bumped arms, and hear Vera Lynn singing to the gulls. I want to go to a Holly Near concert and sing with the women. I want to sit on a Michigan hillside and hear Cris’ voice reaching for the most distant of planets.
I want to raise my voice and sing along, hearing the effortless harmonies in a roomful of women who love women. I want to sit by my lover and hold her hand and lean against her shoulder and feel laughter bubbling up in my throat because life is so wonderful and women sing together so well. I want to go home from the concert, still high on all that energy, and write poetry until dawn, with my lover asleep next to me in the bed.
I want the world to see me for who I really am, and know that finally, completely, the lies have been vanquished. I want to grow, I want to live, I want to dream, I want to write, I want to sing, I want to sign, I want to dive through the waves like a flying fish and come up laughing for more, again and again and again.
brain storms
I'm taking a class about getting around writer's block. Last week's lesson was about brainstorming.
* * *
brainstorm
* * *
brainstorm
brain storm
write about storms
wind, wet slashing down, thunder
I should not be out playing
on a hillside
during a lightening storm
what do I remember about storms
on summer afternoons in the mountains?
the thunderheads, white clouds turning dark,
the intensity of that summer sun,
intense color, deep blue sky
I haven’t seen that color in decades
not since riding my horse
galloping across columbine-laced meadow
riding ornery Goldie was something
of a storm in itself
storms
snowstorms are my favorite
dramatic in such a silent way
silent drama
like an ASL signed
play in three acts
Deaf Theatre
silent drama
the drama of gay kids,
their pain silenced
ignored
until they die long before they should
so much talent and love and hope
wasted and gone
kids should not be dying
write about storms, huh?
Did I ever see a thunderstorm
boil across Lake Superior
and slash the dorm windows with rain?
Did I ever dance
in the dewdrop sweetness
of early morning at Cedar Lake?
I remember hanging with the dogs
one early morning,
when those kids were
shooting that soft porn film
“Move your shorts so we can see your buns. Melody.
You have reeeally nice buns; I think it will be allllright.”
That kid,
the one with the camera,
the only male
(an important observation
when watching half-naked women
and men with cameras
and directorial aspirations)
that kid said that a lot, “allllright”.
So mellow and pretend-gentle
for someone shooting porn.
I might call it erotica
if he hadn’t told one of the women
to pretend to drown…
“put your face in the water and your butt in the air”
two women played like lovers
as they slipped on summer shifts,
translucent, white, long skirts barely covering
tanned wet bodies
I have skinny-dipped in that lake
at night
when the only white was
naked breasts
stomachs
butt cheeks in the star light
some storms are softest of rain
some are pain and blood and thunder
I have seen both
brain storms
brain storms
Thursday, March 22, 2012
I Call It Civil War
I am very troubled by the widening distance between my feminist sensibilities and the thoughts of younger women who put themselves on the other side of the debate about women's rights. What can I say to you that will not be taken the wrong way? We are on opposite sides of a great divide, and it is getting wider all the time.
When American Rupublicans are not only suggesting, but passing laws that are injurious to women, I see misogyny and anti-feminism at work. But you apparently don’t see what I see.
Laws are being passed that dictate a waiting period between a woman’s request for an abortion and the actual procedure. I believe these laws set up women for emotional torture, second-guessing and guilt tripping. The affected women have already made the difficult decision to end a pregnancy. In a discussion about these laws, a presumably Christian woman said she thought the mandated wait times, 'counseling' and intravaginal ultrasounds a good thing, because “doctors never tell us anything.”
When I hear this, I assume that this woman wants to know about and have control over her own body. I understand she wants factual information so she can make informed decisions based on her personal needs, values and situation. That’s as it should be. I certainly want that, too, for myself and for all women.
I also believe that it is naïve to presume that passing laws mandating that every woman who wants to end a pregnancy (or get extra help to have a child, or hopes to bring a pregnancy to term without a miscarriage, or wants to plan her family) must be forced into unnecessary and unwanted tests and counseling.
I find it insulting that anyone believes that a woman is incapable of making the best decision for her particular situation. I find it ludicrous that a bunch of men know what women need more than women do. Letting men control women’s bodies is a very bad idea, particularly in a society that is clearly still woman hating and suspicious of women’s strength, ethics and insight. There is an overarching idea, one I thought we feminists had partially eradicated, that women are evil, unthinking, child-like. . .the list goes on. And our politicians are falling back on these superstitions to get the power that they want.
I have been so horrified the past year or two as more and more bizarre laws are suggested and passed. The recent fight about whether church-sponsored medical organizations (e.g. a Catholic college student clinic) have to provide and pay for birth control is a good example. Santorum seems to think that birth control should be outlawed even between married couples. This man is running for the GOP presidential nomination. We have to take what he says seriously, even if he's an idiot.
It has often occurred to me that some of this bizarre thinking may be a smoke screen; a way to get everybody all riled up so that they won’t notice the continuing lack of job development, the failing economy and the corruption at all levels of government and finance. I don’t know if my smokescreen theory is the main motivation behind the current climate of hatred or if I just wish for diversion tactics, because I can’t quite wrap my head around believing that there are people out there who as hateful, shortsighted and narrow-minded as the extreme right is proving themselves to be.
This country is at civil war. Families are being torn apart, young people are going to needless deaths as a result of bullying and racism, and loyalties are decided with more Fox News-inspired patriotism and emotion than careful thought and research. And, like in the Civil War of 1860’s USA, much of the underlying issue is financial. I’m not sure how the people in power get from A to B, but somehow they think that subjugating women is necessary financially. They don’t give a hoot about children, born or unborn, or they wouldn’t be cutting things like TANF. They just want to control their worlds and I suspect the power women have shown over the past 50 years scares the s*%& out of them.
I don’t know how to bridge the ravine that I am watching widen as every day passes, as more and more cruel and inhumane laws are passed. The ravine is personal; my siblings are both extremely conservative and have ideas that horrify me. When Donald Trump believes the birther theories, I roll my eyes and wish he’d find a better toupee. When it is my brother, who I know to be a thoughtful, intelligent man, who believes those ideas, I am deeply saddened and feel powerless to reach him. There are many ravines between he and I. And they are all so unnecessary, all based on lies.
Those birther ideas are rooted in the most pervasive of racism. I am discouraged not only for our country, but for the courageous family who is in the White House, struggling to make life better for all people, even those who hate the color of their skin.
I don’t know how to talk to you, young conservative friend. I can only continue to find ways to work for what I believe is right, and hope that some day, you will have the freedom to make decisions about your own body, without some lawmaker intruding into a discussion that should be between a woman and her doctor.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
A Border Collie and His Black Sheep
Lucky came to me first. I supervised a computer lab in a suburban high school. On the first day of school, Lucky bounded into my room with a large white shepherd mix in tow. He came right to me, sat for pets, gave me a big doggie smile and my heart said, “This is a goood dog!” The other dog turned out to belong to a neighbor who couldn’t seem to keep him home, but I never could find Lucky’s person.
He clearly came from a good home. At eight months, he’d been trained with kindness, was good around stock, and was a pretty solid dog. I knew he was a Border Collie, but I knew nothing about the breed. I called the hotlines of the shelters (this was before I knew about stray holds) and drove around most of the weekend, but never found who’d lost him. Someone lost a great dog, and I met one of my best friends.
At the time, I knew I was close to losing Myrddin, the gold-colored setter who had taken my life and my heart by storm some fifteen years earlier. I ended up having to put Myrddin down less than a month later. Lucky’s appearance was certainly well timed.
The second day of school, I locked Lucky in my large bathroom with another dog I’d rescued. At noon, I drove home to check on him. On the way back to school, I found a 12-week old white kitten sitting in the middle of the road. I was also unable to find his owners, and he soon went to a new home.
In the intervening week, Lucky and that kitten played a hilarious game, over and over. The kitten would huff out from under the living room chair, back arched, tail puffed, hopping sideways. Lucky would pounce and the kitten would scurry back into hiding, only to start the game over again. When the kitten’s new person walked away with him, Lucky followed the length of the living room windows. “Where are you going, new friend?”
My roommate, who was feeling a little overwhelmed at the number of dogs I was bringing home (I’d started sneaking them in and out. . .) soon said, “If you want to keep Lucky, I really like him.” Smart, beautiful and charming, Lucky won over a lot of people through his life.
A few months later, one of the kids came in. “Aspen, there’s another dog on the football field.” I’d been ‘rescuing’ dogs for the past few years, and had had perfect karma, always finding their homes after an afternoon of driving around the neighborhood. I was a little burned out, though, since many of them went back to inadequate homes. I got a note from the English teacher; her kids had nicknamed me “Aspen Ventura” after a Jim Carrey movie about a dog rescuer.
The cute little dog on the football field was a 30# spaniel mix who showed her impish personality that first afternoon, leading me on a chase across campus. If I called her, the tail went up and she ran the other direction. I started calling her “Little Girl” at once, and the name stuck.
I didn’t look for Little Girl’s people. She was covered with fleas, too thin and wearing two collars, both too large for her. She was also terrified of everything. I had to literally fight with her to get her in the car that first night. Although she soon learned that the car meant going to the park, it took her an entire year to meet my eyes.
Border Collies are herding dogs, originally bred on the cold, rough and rainy border between Scotland and Britain. They herd anything that moves. I don’t remember how the habit started, but Lucky soon took on the responsibility of keeping track of his little sister, the black sheep. I’d call her, she’d run the other direction, and he’d follow, either herding her back, or crouching and keeping an eye on her.
I’d say, “Where’s your sister?” and he’d go find her. One memorable evening, about dusk, we were in a wooded park where the two of them loved to chase squirrels. I’d called and called, and couldn’t find Little Girl anywhere. I looked at Lucky and commented, “You know, I’m about ready to go home and eat dinner. What about you?”
I guess he was hungry. Turns out Little Girl was about 20 feet away, staring up a tree. Lucky collected her, herded her back to the car and held her there until I caught up. That’s a Border Collie for you; I can’t count how many times I’ve talked to Lucky or Stevie (the BC I live with now) and had them understand me perfectly. In addition, Lucky often picked up on my emotions. Even after he went to live with Kelly, his rescue mom, there were several instances where we seemed to pick up on each other’s feelings.
In those early days, we had access to a wonderful beach house on Washington’s Pacific coast, and at least a couple of times a year, I’d pack up the whole crew (which also included an opinionated cat) and drive out to the beach.
I don’t know what they’re called, but there are seabirds that fly in formation along the edge of the surf. Lucky loved to herd them, and in those days, he could run and run. Little Girl had no herding instinct to speak of, but she would cooperate with him and help herd the birds.
They were best buddies. Lucky herded her outside, but inside, Little Girl owned the bed, and kept the very soft Lucky off it. I always wanted him to sleep with me (Little Girl slept under the covers, even in the summer), but inside, he was terrified of Little Girl, the alpha brat. I remember one night, I woke up and realized there were two dogs on the bed. As soon as I woke, Lucky got up and left, but I wondered how many times over the years he snuck onto the bed to lay full length against my back.
A friend once told me, “Myrddin wanted to be taken care of; Lucky is here to take care of you.” He always had my back.
Little Girl was a mighty hunter. I often wondered what she had in her besides spaniel. She seemed drawn to beagles, and had quite the vocabulary of corrgels, hoots, hollers, bays, growls, yips and yaps. She proved this one night when I went to bed and heard her and Lucky hunting in the house. That little dog was sure having a good time; she ran through every sound I’ve ever heard from a dog, and then some. I got up later and found that they’d killed one of the biggest rats I’d ever seen.
Stevie doesn’t hunt, but Lucky learned from Little Girl and they often cooperated. I had to fence off a rockery in my yard because Little Girl would spend hours harassing the garter snakes that lived there. I’d look out the window and see some poor snake Essing across the yard, both dogs in pursuit.
The first time we lived in my car, we didn’t find a place to live until November. The truck got cold at night, and I went to the thrift store and bought both dogs fleece coats. For Lucky, I got a dignified blue and red plaid vest. Little Girl received a child’s red, hooded jacket with an appliquéd Mickey Mouse on the chest. Lucky was quite insulted; I ended up buying him an expensive and warm dog coat. Little Girl, always one to work the cute factor, loved her coat and wore it often to the dog park.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
A Following of Crows
I’ve been spending a goodly portion of my grocery money on peanuts for the crows. Every morning, Stevie and I circumnavigate the double city block behind our house. We walk half a block on the first leg before we meet the first large flock, thanks to a fountain and feeding station (and a lovely Poodle) at a house on the next corner. There are always a few early birds to accompany us on that first part of our jaunt.
At first, there were only a few crows; those who happened to be at the neighbor house at that hour. I could, with careful management, go all the way around the block on one pocketful of peanuts. Today, I was lucky to get half way. I have a following.
A large flock followed us on the next section of our journey, limited more by the dwindling contents of my peanut pocket than by geography. I could hear their wings as they swooped above us, a velvet softness of wing beats, surprisingly unpunctuated by caws. In spite of my quip to a neighbor, “I doubt they’re starving of the hunger if they can make this much noise,” the crows are mostly silent when following peanuts. Except for that softness of wings.
Today, motivated by a looming deadline, I defaulted on our daily trip to the dog park and took Stevie around the block again mid-afternoon. Again, we were recognized and followed by a large group. I even spied the Steller’s Jay nabbing a stray peanut near some bushes.
And again, I ran out of peanuts before I got to the vet clinic on the corner near my house. Again, I had to apologize to a small, curious crow who followed me from tree to tree, endeavoring to look like she was starving. Not successfully, but I did feel badly that I hadn’t saved any peanuts for her. There is another neighbor at this corner who smokes outside, sitting on his porch, and feeds the crows and the jays.
So this evening, enjoying our first spring sunset, since the time changed last night and we were watching the sun go down at 6:30 pm, I walked in the other direction. I was determined to have peanuts for that small crow who had perched in the tree above me, listening to my fervent apologies in silence. I had asked her to follow me home, but the crows have learned that when someone goes inside the house, the treat time is over.
I have been using body language in a consistent manner, hoping to teach them to understand when I sign that I am out of peanuts. I have also, foolishly for my grocery budget, been going outside once I get home, to offer more peanuts to those left bereft. They are never there, and the scatterings I hopefully leave on the lawn, are not usually touched.
Anyway, back to our evening walk. I heard and saw many crows, but they were all headed north-east, high in the sky. I wonder where they roost. They’re such fascinating creatures. Always, I have a soft spot for the tricksters of the animal kingdom, animal and human alike.
Friday, March 9, 2012
Houses: Vision of the Bridge
For Sherry, because she recognized the ovum.
Thanks to Sally Miller Gearhart, who gave us the Wanderground.
The lights in the trees are increasing, more visible with the impending night, more numerous as we drift away from the bonfires. The singing drops to a melodic chant; I hear a lullaby guitar from across the river. Birdsong decreases; I haven’t heard the crow people since the first pink appeared in the clouds.
A tail thumps against my leg; I bend to hold Lucky’s warm body in a hug, and he favors me with one of his gentle, lightening-fast kisses. I bury my nose in his soft, thick doggie-smell coat and glory in a hug so long missed that I may never forget how slowly time moved between his leaving and my coming here.
As his white ruff makes my nose tickle, I hear the first cry from the wolves. Their howling always sounds sad to me, even though there are no traps here, no guns. Multi-layered, far-reaching, the wolfsong always starts with melodies deep and sonorous and far away.
The coyotes’ refrains are higher pitched, yips and yelps and soprano calls. Next to the wild songs, the bays of the dogs, the hounds, the collies, the cocker spaniels, are cacophony, not yet melody. This does not curb their enthusiasm.
I sense, but do not pay attention to the quiet of the woods around me. This nightly chorus makes us all stop and remember the wild ones for a moment. Even here, this is the least we can give them.
As the last howl dies away, I resume my walk through the trees. Above me, I hear whispers, laughter, a lullaby as the young women in their swaggerlairs ease into the joy of night time couplings and sleep dreams. There are no nightmares here.
The first cricket cheeps off to my left. Across the water, I spot Janes’s sail house. I love our creativity, our variety, our commitment to home and place.
Many of us build our homes in the branches. After so long chained to the ground, watching the saws and the bulldozers disregard the gentle and sturdy spirits that are those great survivors, the trees, we want to be close to them. Their song, this night, as the summer wind blows a few cirrus clouds across the moon, soothes me toward sleep.
I can’t wait to climb up the rope, tuck into my sweet-smelling ova and dream my favorite dreams of women and dogs and trees, all living in harmony.
Thanks to Sally Miller Gearhart, who gave us the Wanderground.
The lights in the trees are increasing, more visible with the impending night, more numerous as we drift away from the bonfires. The singing drops to a melodic chant; I hear a lullaby guitar from across the river. Birdsong decreases; I haven’t heard the crow people since the first pink appeared in the clouds.
A tail thumps against my leg; I bend to hold Lucky’s warm body in a hug, and he favors me with one of his gentle, lightening-fast kisses. I bury my nose in his soft, thick doggie-smell coat and glory in a hug so long missed that I may never forget how slowly time moved between his leaving and my coming here.
As his white ruff makes my nose tickle, I hear the first cry from the wolves. Their howling always sounds sad to me, even though there are no traps here, no guns. Multi-layered, far-reaching, the wolfsong always starts with melodies deep and sonorous and far away.
The coyotes’ refrains are higher pitched, yips and yelps and soprano calls. Next to the wild songs, the bays of the dogs, the hounds, the collies, the cocker spaniels, are cacophony, not yet melody. This does not curb their enthusiasm.
I sense, but do not pay attention to the quiet of the woods around me. This nightly chorus makes us all stop and remember the wild ones for a moment. Even here, this is the least we can give them.
As the last howl dies away, I resume my walk through the trees. Above me, I hear whispers, laughter, a lullaby as the young women in their swaggerlairs ease into the joy of night time couplings and sleep dreams. There are no nightmares here.
The first cricket cheeps off to my left. Across the water, I spot Janes’s sail house. I love our creativity, our variety, our commitment to home and place.
Many of us build our homes in the branches. After so long chained to the ground, watching the saws and the bulldozers disregard the gentle and sturdy spirits that are those great survivors, the trees, we want to be close to them. Their song, this night, as the summer wind blows a few cirrus clouds across the moon, soothes me toward sleep.
I can’t wait to climb up the rope, tuck into my sweet-smelling ova and dream my favorite dreams of women and dogs and trees, all living in harmony.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Camping Time
It is almost time to go camping. The bushes have buds, the pussy willows are soft, the crocuses are showing their colorful blooms and the forsythia outside my window is mimicking the daffodils.
The light is returning. I see pink clouds on our morning walks, and the evening moon doesn’t show herself until after dinner. Today, it was sunny and the lake was very blue.
It may have smelled of snow this morning, as we walked in the sleet, but Stevie has been eating new grass along the pathways. He pulls the blades from between the emerging dandelion greens, still tender in their newness. Once the cold night has disappeared, the earth smells are pungent with dead leaf, earthworm, rich loam smells.
The birdsong is more varied. The wind certainly blows, but it no longer howls around the eaves.
It has been a warm winter, but I crave the heat of August. The sun on my face is more than a benediction; it is hope and life itself.
I’ve been craving the sweet tanginess of lemonade, and the sour delight of cold grapefruit juice, freshly squeezed. Strawberries beckon me, but I won’t buy them until they’re locally grown.
A milkshake sounds really good about now.
It is time to get out of the city for a while. I want wild Wyoming landscapes, star-blessed wilderness nights and windy hilltops above a panorama as large as the sky itself.
I want the wind fresh from the Strait and fish smells, salt-water odors and clean-smelling mist in my nose. I want firm sand under my feet as I dodge the waves and the ice-cold froth of a Pacific tide.
I want to hear gulls shrieking through the fog and light rain pattering on the roof of my truck. I want to watch the sun come out and sparkle silver on the rolling waves. I want to go to sleep where the surf rolls through my dreams. I want to wake with the sun glowing red through my closed eyelids.
I want to pack up the truck and travel through mountain passes where the kinnikinnick peeks through the snow. I want to walk pine-needled lanes surrounded by shaded, quiet woods. I want to watch waterfalls tumble from the granite mountainsides, and fantasize about how cold and sweet that water would have tasted fifty years ago from a mountain spring.
My wanderlust is back. It is time to go camping.
The light is returning. I see pink clouds on our morning walks, and the evening moon doesn’t show herself until after dinner. Today, it was sunny and the lake was very blue.
It may have smelled of snow this morning, as we walked in the sleet, but Stevie has been eating new grass along the pathways. He pulls the blades from between the emerging dandelion greens, still tender in their newness. Once the cold night has disappeared, the earth smells are pungent with dead leaf, earthworm, rich loam smells.
The birdsong is more varied. The wind certainly blows, but it no longer howls around the eaves.
It has been a warm winter, but I crave the heat of August. The sun on my face is more than a benediction; it is hope and life itself.
I’ve been craving the sweet tanginess of lemonade, and the sour delight of cold grapefruit juice, freshly squeezed. Strawberries beckon me, but I won’t buy them until they’re locally grown.
A milkshake sounds really good about now.
It is time to get out of the city for a while. I want wild Wyoming landscapes, star-blessed wilderness nights and windy hilltops above a panorama as large as the sky itself.
I want the wind fresh from the Strait and fish smells, salt-water odors and clean-smelling mist in my nose. I want firm sand under my feet as I dodge the waves and the ice-cold froth of a Pacific tide.
I want to hear gulls shrieking through the fog and light rain pattering on the roof of my truck. I want to watch the sun come out and sparkle silver on the rolling waves. I want to go to sleep where the surf rolls through my dreams. I want to wake with the sun glowing red through my closed eyelids.
I want to pack up the truck and travel through mountain passes where the kinnikinnick peeks through the snow. I want to walk pine-needled lanes surrounded by shaded, quiet woods. I want to watch waterfalls tumble from the granite mountainsides, and fantasize about how cold and sweet that water would have tasted fifty years ago from a mountain spring.
My wanderlust is back. It is time to go camping.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Profanity
Stevie, my 13-year-old Border Collie, and I circumnavigate the block every morning. Lately, I’ve taken to scattering a handful of peanuts (unsalted, roasted) for the crows who squawk from the power lines above our heads.
A Steller's Jay is always present, but he is never reckless enough to try to take a peanut from the much larger crows.
This morning, I was throwing peanuts to the ever-increasing murder above my head when I heard very efficient, LOUD profanity from a nearby tree. I couldn’t see the potty mouth, but I acknowledged his anger and encouraged him to show himself.
With my encouragement, the Jay hopped down, grabbed a peanut from the roadway, and carried his prize back to his tree. I must say he glowed with pride.
What? Anthropomorphize a bird? Not me!
The current brouhaha over the rating of Harvey Feinstein's "Bully" needs to be resolved so that children of all ages can see this film. Having worked in a high school, I can tell you that the most naive student is well-versed in profanity, whether they themselves use it or not. I've heard third graders use words I don't use, and I am far from prudish. Despite an eloquent plea by one of the bullied students whose experiences are documented in the movie, the MPAA refused a PG-13 rating by one vote!
Hopefully, the rating folks will realize that obscenities are part of bullying, part of the intimidation factor, and leave the film its realism. We need to leave piety at the door and step into our children's world.
A Steller's Jay is always present, but he is never reckless enough to try to take a peanut from the much larger crows.
This morning, I was throwing peanuts to the ever-increasing murder above my head when I heard very efficient, LOUD profanity from a nearby tree. I couldn’t see the potty mouth, but I acknowledged his anger and encouraged him to show himself.
With my encouragement, the Jay hopped down, grabbed a peanut from the roadway, and carried his prize back to his tree. I must say he glowed with pride.
What? Anthropomorphize a bird? Not me!
* * *
The current brouhaha over the rating of Harvey Feinstein's "Bully" needs to be resolved so that children of all ages can see this film. Having worked in a high school, I can tell you that the most naive student is well-versed in profanity, whether they themselves use it or not. I've heard third graders use words I don't use, and I am far from prudish. Despite an eloquent plea by one of the bullied students whose experiences are documented in the movie, the MPAA refused a PG-13 rating by one vote!
Hopefully, the rating folks will realize that obscenities are part of bullying, part of the intimidation factor, and leave the film its realism. We need to leave piety at the door and step into our children's world.
Movie: Annie's Point
Is there anyone out there who doesn’t love Betty White? Although she’s been well known to my generation since her role as Sue Ann Nivens on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, her career has spanned more than seventy years. And she’s still going strong, having recently been honored as the oldest person to host SNL, for which she won an Emmy.
I loved her in The Golden Girls, and her ditsy reprise on Boston Legal cracked me up. How can I not appreciate a ninety year old actress who encourages my warped sense of humor? I love her comedy, respect her spunk and appreciate her work for animal rights. I was pleasantly surprised to discover, watching the 2005 movie Annie’s Point, that she’s also a fine dramatic actress.
Annie’s Point is a story of a recent widow who is determined, against the advice of her doctor and her son, to make a cross-country trip to fulfill her husband’s last wish. She and her initially reluctant granddaughter, Ella (played by Amy Davidson, who I remember as the redheaded daughter on Eight Simple Rules), take off in Annie’s classic red convertible to travel from Chicago to California.
Their often-humorous adventures (including getting arrested for skinny dipping – Annie’s idea!) provide a structure for the film’s deeper messages of forgiving family, honoring grief, following one’s dreams and taking risks. The interplay of emotions and unresolved issues between Annie, her son (played by Richard Thomas, John-Boy of The Waltons) and granddaughter Ella are multi-layered and well played. Although this movie was made for the Hallmark Channel, there is too much humor to be cloying; there are too many fine performances to dismiss it as simply a TV movie.
One of the best surprises of the movie is Amy Davidson’s beautiful singing voice, displayed when Ella, at Annie’s urging, overcomes her anxiety to perform at an open mic.
Betty White is one of several senior actors who are providing role models for those who would wrap our elders in cotton batting and assume they are closed-minded, over-the-hill and out of touch with the real world. In both her real life and in this film, White challenges stereotypes with an impish delight that I suspect is very much a part of her personality, not just part of a role written for an actress. I recommend her and this film.
I loved her in The Golden Girls, and her ditsy reprise on Boston Legal cracked me up. How can I not appreciate a ninety year old actress who encourages my warped sense of humor? I love her comedy, respect her spunk and appreciate her work for animal rights. I was pleasantly surprised to discover, watching the 2005 movie Annie’s Point, that she’s also a fine dramatic actress.
Annie’s Point is a story of a recent widow who is determined, against the advice of her doctor and her son, to make a cross-country trip to fulfill her husband’s last wish. She and her initially reluctant granddaughter, Ella (played by Amy Davidson, who I remember as the redheaded daughter on Eight Simple Rules), take off in Annie’s classic red convertible to travel from Chicago to California.
Their often-humorous adventures (including getting arrested for skinny dipping – Annie’s idea!) provide a structure for the film’s deeper messages of forgiving family, honoring grief, following one’s dreams and taking risks. The interplay of emotions and unresolved issues between Annie, her son (played by Richard Thomas, John-Boy of The Waltons) and granddaughter Ella are multi-layered and well played. Although this movie was made for the Hallmark Channel, there is too much humor to be cloying; there are too many fine performances to dismiss it as simply a TV movie.
One of the best surprises of the movie is Amy Davidson’s beautiful singing voice, displayed when Ella, at Annie’s urging, overcomes her anxiety to perform at an open mic.
Betty White is one of several senior actors who are providing role models for those who would wrap our elders in cotton batting and assume they are closed-minded, over-the-hill and out of touch with the real world. In both her real life and in this film, White challenges stereotypes with an impish delight that I suspect is very much a part of her personality, not just part of a role written for an actress. I recommend her and this film.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Reading Resonates: Books About Twins
“I realize now that yours is the heartbeat that I’ve always missed.”
-- Elyse Schein
Twins, especially identical twins, hold a fascination for many people, and I am as intrigued as the next person. I’ve recently finished reading Identical Strangers: A Memoir of Twins Separated and Reunited by Elyse Schein and Paula Bernstein.
Elyse and Paula are identical twins who were placed as infants with two different NYC families. Neither knew the other existed until age 33, when Elyse started a search for their birth mother. The memoir traces their journey as they become acquainted and continue their search for the whys and wherefores of their birth, separation and adoptions. They also trace the history of the nature vs. nurture debate; are we more a product of our genes or of our environment?
I particularly enjoyed this book because it was so personal. Paula and Elyse tell their stories through alternating journal entries, speaking about what it is like to discover an unknown twin in mid-life. They discuss various twin studies, their search for their birth mother, and the corrupt science that lead to their being separated at the behest of a psychiatrist who wanted to study the development of separated twins.
Why do twins fascinate us so much?
For me, the obvious answer is that I’ve always wanted a best friend, and mostly haven’t felt like I had one. Add to that the potential of having a double I could persuade to play pranks on classmates or take my place in gym class and my childhood fantasy life was almost complete. (I once knew a twin who confessed that she took two algebra classes per day so her sister wouldn’t have to go to the dreaded math.)
I’ve spent a lot of time alone, and all of us crave a partner, someone with whom to share our greatest depths. What would it be like to have a true love, a soul mate, a twin?
I wanted a sister; I still want a sister. Perhaps I wanted someone built-in, who had to love me. I’m certainly captivated by the concept of having someone who looks like me. Perhaps I wanted moral support from a twin; someone to turn to when the world was against me. As a child who felt friendless, and was sometimes bullied, the idea of a built-in best friend was very engaging.
Although I have a younger sister, we have never been close. In fact, when she was around eleven and I was 14, we traveled across country to visit my mother’s family in Connecticut. To my sister’s horror, I cut my hair into bangs so that we would look more alike. My grandmother, in an uncharacteristic bit of whimsy, pretended all afternoon that she couldn’t tell us apart. LOL. I’m sure my sister loved that, too.
I remember one afternoon where my cousin and I took great glee in driving her mother to distraction by switching clothes. We didn’t look at all alike, but we were the same size and the same age, and we were good buds at that age. Cousin may have been the ringleader in our mischief, but I’m sure I wasn’t far behind. (And, oh, by the way, swamping the boat and getting soaked didn’t make my aunt any happier!)
Although there was a family resemblance between my sister, my brother and I, I never thought we looked particularly alike. (I did have a rich fantasy life, however; hence the incident with my grandmother!)
When I was in college, my mother showed me the proofs my sister had received from a professional photo shoot. Even though I knew for a fact that the photos were of my sibling, some of those images could have been of me. It was a most discomforting experience to look at pictures I knew were not of me, and see myself looking back. Apparently, my sister and I share many mannerisms and facial expressions, not just similarities in our bone structure and coloring.
Indivisible by Two: Lives of Extraordinary Twins by Nancy J Segal, is less personal, since it is written by a “twin researcher” who interviews some sets of multiples with unusual stories. However, the stories are interesting. Among others, she tells of a set of twins who are separated by divorce. One is raised in Eastern Europe as a Catholic, and joins the Hitler Youth. The other grows up in Trinidad, and is raised in the Jewish faith of his father. Another story concerns identical twin sisters, one of whom transitions to male when she reaches adulthood.
From the perspective of adulthood, I’m well aware that the twins I’ve known, particularly my students (fraternal as well as identical twins) often had a relationship where one was more of an achiever than the other, or one twin was quite dominant. Still, I expect I will always wish to see myself mirrored in a sister or friend, so that I can experience that unusual intimacy on which twins seem to have a premium.
-- Elyse Schein
Twins, especially identical twins, hold a fascination for many people, and I am as intrigued as the next person. I’ve recently finished reading Identical Strangers: A Memoir of Twins Separated and Reunited by Elyse Schein and Paula Bernstein.
Elyse and Paula are identical twins who were placed as infants with two different NYC families. Neither knew the other existed until age 33, when Elyse started a search for their birth mother. The memoir traces their journey as they become acquainted and continue their search for the whys and wherefores of their birth, separation and adoptions. They also trace the history of the nature vs. nurture debate; are we more a product of our genes or of our environment?
I particularly enjoyed this book because it was so personal. Paula and Elyse tell their stories through alternating journal entries, speaking about what it is like to discover an unknown twin in mid-life. They discuss various twin studies, their search for their birth mother, and the corrupt science that lead to their being separated at the behest of a psychiatrist who wanted to study the development of separated twins.
Why do twins fascinate us so much?
For me, the obvious answer is that I’ve always wanted a best friend, and mostly haven’t felt like I had one. Add to that the potential of having a double I could persuade to play pranks on classmates or take my place in gym class and my childhood fantasy life was almost complete. (I once knew a twin who confessed that she took two algebra classes per day so her sister wouldn’t have to go to the dreaded math.)
I’ve spent a lot of time alone, and all of us crave a partner, someone with whom to share our greatest depths. What would it be like to have a true love, a soul mate, a twin?
I wanted a sister; I still want a sister. Perhaps I wanted someone built-in, who had to love me. I’m certainly captivated by the concept of having someone who looks like me. Perhaps I wanted moral support from a twin; someone to turn to when the world was against me. As a child who felt friendless, and was sometimes bullied, the idea of a built-in best friend was very engaging.
Although I have a younger sister, we have never been close. In fact, when she was around eleven and I was 14, we traveled across country to visit my mother’s family in Connecticut. To my sister’s horror, I cut my hair into bangs so that we would look more alike. My grandmother, in an uncharacteristic bit of whimsy, pretended all afternoon that she couldn’t tell us apart. LOL. I’m sure my sister loved that, too.
I remember one afternoon where my cousin and I took great glee in driving her mother to distraction by switching clothes. We didn’t look at all alike, but we were the same size and the same age, and we were good buds at that age. Cousin may have been the ringleader in our mischief, but I’m sure I wasn’t far behind. (And, oh, by the way, swamping the boat and getting soaked didn’t make my aunt any happier!)
Although there was a family resemblance between my sister, my brother and I, I never thought we looked particularly alike. (I did have a rich fantasy life, however; hence the incident with my grandmother!)
When I was in college, my mother showed me the proofs my sister had received from a professional photo shoot. Even though I knew for a fact that the photos were of my sibling, some of those images could have been of me. It was a most discomforting experience to look at pictures I knew were not of me, and see myself looking back. Apparently, my sister and I share many mannerisms and facial expressions, not just similarities in our bone structure and coloring.
Indivisible by Two: Lives of Extraordinary Twins by Nancy J Segal, is less personal, since it is written by a “twin researcher” who interviews some sets of multiples with unusual stories. However, the stories are interesting. Among others, she tells of a set of twins who are separated by divorce. One is raised in Eastern Europe as a Catholic, and joins the Hitler Youth. The other grows up in Trinidad, and is raised in the Jewish faith of his father. Another story concerns identical twin sisters, one of whom transitions to male when she reaches adulthood.
From the perspective of adulthood, I’m well aware that the twins I’ve known, particularly my students (fraternal as well as identical twins) often had a relationship where one was more of an achiever than the other, or one twin was quite dominant. Still, I expect I will always wish to see myself mirrored in a sister or friend, so that I can experience that unusual intimacy on which twins seem to have a premium.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Exploring Home: Community
Home. I’m not sure where it is anymore.
I grew up in Colorado, and although I haven’t been back for more than short visits since 1978, a piece of my heart lives in the Colorado Rockies.
I’ve lived in the Pacific NW since 1987. Northern Idaho, Seattle, the Kitsap Peninsula. When I go back to Kitsap County, that feels like home. My little house is gone, though.
My parents’ house in Northern Idaho was warm and colorful and very close to the outdoors that we could see through the multiple windows. I treasure the memories of sitting in the snowy woods with Myrddin, my aging gold setter, and a flock of chickadees who came to gossip about me in the trees around my log.
Idaho did not feel like home, only that house. I lived there on and off for two years. I found a picture the other day of a snowy lake surrounded by evergreens. I have no idea where it was taken, but it could be Spirit Lake, near where my parents built their house. That picture brought back love of place that I didn’t realize I felt.
The Idaho house was sold to strangers years ago. Life goes on.
I’ve lived in many places in Seattle: thirteen or fourteen different places. Some were pleasant, some not so much. I tend to try to make connection with place; with the woods, the trees, the fields, the water. I felt connection at many of these places, but none of them jump out at me now and yell, “Here. I’m home to you!”
That said, I like the climate and country here. I’ve said Seattle feels like home.
Although I spent ten years in Minnesota, as much of it as possible in the country, I have little desire to go back. I have many memories of being in beautiful places there, but the climate discourages me.
However, there were people in Minnesota, the one place where I really had a lesbian community, who still feel like a bit of home to me. How can I feel such strong connections to people I haven’t seen, except on Facebook, for 25 years? For the most part, these people do not talk to me any more. I’m sure they don’t feel like I am part of their community. But for me, the connection remains. Community is important and the social and political lesbian and co-op communities of 1980's Minneapolis was very much a part of who I was and who I have become.
In many ways, Minneapolis-St. Paul was where I came of age. I came out as a lesbian there. I listened to Women’s Music and became politicized. I learned to be assertive. I lived in cooperative houses, worked in collectives, and practiced consensus decision making until I actually became quite good at it. I worked as an interpreter for the Deaf and in the food co-ops, both jobs I really wanted to be doing. I dated my first girlfriend there. I spent many evenings at the lesbian coffeehouse.
My work in the co-ops was public, and I sometimes passed community news to every lesbian who came into the store. When someone died, when the Peace Camp needed women to stay overnight and maintain a presence, when an anti-porn demonstration was planned, I took on the role of news-speaker, probably to the amusement/chagrin of my less political co-workers.
I went to political meetings, to demonstrations, Holly Near concerts, to the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival. I was active and passionate and social. We all were.
That community was important to others, too. When a dear, sweet woman died prematurely a few years ago, that old neighborhood came out of the woodwork, collecting on the internet, on Facebook, and reestablishing old connections. While I was very much on the perimeter of that reestablishment of community, I realized how much those women still meant to me, and how much I valued that time. I wonder if that is true of all lesbian communities from the political and idealistic 1980’s?
I’ve had other, briefer, communities that meant a lot to me, some of them before Minnesota, some of them here in Seattle. Coming out as a lesbian, in that time, at that place, was unique, though. For the first time, those quirks of personality that had kept me separate from the non-Queer world were reflected back to me from the women around me. I didn’t have to try to be a woman that I will never be: heterosexual, apolitical, or girly. Nothing wrong with that, but it isn't me. Some crucial parts of me were no longer “Other”, and that was such a homecoming.
I haven’t had much lesbian community in at least 20 years, but sometimes I step back into that world for a moment or two, and it feels so right, so much a part of me.
I don’t have much sense of community now, which has made memories of former communities feel more precious to me.
For me, much of the feeling of home is about place, and there are physical places, former and present, that are very much a part of my psyche, my feeling of self. However, there are neighborhoods of the spirit, times and places where I remember feeling part of the human commonality. My sense of home will always incorporate community, whether past or present.
I guess growing up, coming completely into one’s self, means finding home within one’s heart. There are individuals and communities that I miss at times. There are neighborhoods of ethos and song and thought that are part of my sense of me. I carry them within; I don’t have to look in on those neighborhoods in any physical sense to revisit old pathways to who I have become.
I started this post intending to write about place, about mountains and ocean, about arid Colorado and lush Western Washington. I wanted to explore the call to two such different places, two such dissimilar parts of my heart. The discovery that community, something I feel so little ability to create for myself these days, is part of my feeling of home, is bittersweet. Thank heaven for the memories. No one can take those away just yet.
I grew up in Colorado, and although I haven’t been back for more than short visits since 1978, a piece of my heart lives in the Colorado Rockies.
I’ve lived in the Pacific NW since 1987. Northern Idaho, Seattle, the Kitsap Peninsula. When I go back to Kitsap County, that feels like home. My little house is gone, though.
My parents’ house in Northern Idaho was warm and colorful and very close to the outdoors that we could see through the multiple windows. I treasure the memories of sitting in the snowy woods with Myrddin, my aging gold setter, and a flock of chickadees who came to gossip about me in the trees around my log.
Idaho did not feel like home, only that house. I lived there on and off for two years. I found a picture the other day of a snowy lake surrounded by evergreens. I have no idea where it was taken, but it could be Spirit Lake, near where my parents built their house. That picture brought back love of place that I didn’t realize I felt.
The Idaho house was sold to strangers years ago. Life goes on.
I’ve lived in many places in Seattle: thirteen or fourteen different places. Some were pleasant, some not so much. I tend to try to make connection with place; with the woods, the trees, the fields, the water. I felt connection at many of these places, but none of them jump out at me now and yell, “Here. I’m home to you!”
That said, I like the climate and country here. I’ve said Seattle feels like home.
Although I spent ten years in Minnesota, as much of it as possible in the country, I have little desire to go back. I have many memories of being in beautiful places there, but the climate discourages me.
However, there were people in Minnesota, the one place where I really had a lesbian community, who still feel like a bit of home to me. How can I feel such strong connections to people I haven’t seen, except on Facebook, for 25 years? For the most part, these people do not talk to me any more. I’m sure they don’t feel like I am part of their community. But for me, the connection remains. Community is important and the social and political lesbian and co-op communities of 1980's Minneapolis was very much a part of who I was and who I have become.
In many ways, Minneapolis-St. Paul was where I came of age. I came out as a lesbian there. I listened to Women’s Music and became politicized. I learned to be assertive. I lived in cooperative houses, worked in collectives, and practiced consensus decision making until I actually became quite good at it. I worked as an interpreter for the Deaf and in the food co-ops, both jobs I really wanted to be doing. I dated my first girlfriend there. I spent many evenings at the lesbian coffeehouse.
My work in the co-ops was public, and I sometimes passed community news to every lesbian who came into the store. When someone died, when the Peace Camp needed women to stay overnight and maintain a presence, when an anti-porn demonstration was planned, I took on the role of news-speaker, probably to the amusement/chagrin of my less political co-workers.
I went to political meetings, to demonstrations, Holly Near concerts, to the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival. I was active and passionate and social. We all were.
That community was important to others, too. When a dear, sweet woman died prematurely a few years ago, that old neighborhood came out of the woodwork, collecting on the internet, on Facebook, and reestablishing old connections. While I was very much on the perimeter of that reestablishment of community, I realized how much those women still meant to me, and how much I valued that time. I wonder if that is true of all lesbian communities from the political and idealistic 1980’s?
I’ve had other, briefer, communities that meant a lot to me, some of them before Minnesota, some of them here in Seattle. Coming out as a lesbian, in that time, at that place, was unique, though. For the first time, those quirks of personality that had kept me separate from the non-Queer world were reflected back to me from the women around me. I didn’t have to try to be a woman that I will never be: heterosexual, apolitical, or girly. Nothing wrong with that, but it isn't me. Some crucial parts of me were no longer “Other”, and that was such a homecoming.
I haven’t had much lesbian community in at least 20 years, but sometimes I step back into that world for a moment or two, and it feels so right, so much a part of me.
I don’t have much sense of community now, which has made memories of former communities feel more precious to me.
For me, much of the feeling of home is about place, and there are physical places, former and present, that are very much a part of my psyche, my feeling of self. However, there are neighborhoods of the spirit, times and places where I remember feeling part of the human commonality. My sense of home will always incorporate community, whether past or present.
I guess growing up, coming completely into one’s self, means finding home within one’s heart. There are individuals and communities that I miss at times. There are neighborhoods of ethos and song and thought that are part of my sense of me. I carry them within; I don’t have to look in on those neighborhoods in any physical sense to revisit old pathways to who I have become.
I started this post intending to write about place, about mountains and ocean, about arid Colorado and lush Western Washington. I wanted to explore the call to two such different places, two such dissimilar parts of my heart. The discovery that community, something I feel so little ability to create for myself these days, is part of my feeling of home, is bittersweet. Thank heaven for the memories. No one can take those away just yet.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Houses
Having been homeless several times, most recently for 14 months, possible and alternative living spaces fascinate me. This “hobbit house” is so perfect for hobbits. I wouldn’t mind adopting it myself.
Although I lived in my car for the summer at least twice during my thirties, that wasn’t forced homelessness; I was trying to be creative about the chunk that rent took out of my low income. Unfortunately, I found that living in my vehicle was usually more expensive than the rents I was paying. By the time one drives from food stop to shower facility to dog run to work, and eats instant or restaurant food much of the time, the gas and food expenses add up to more than I’d had to pay for rent. Whether one chooses it or not, living in a vehicle is stressful.
Because I chose to hold onto my critters, who were/are my family, finding living situations has always been a creative endeavor. I can’t count the number of times my “home” has not included a shower, toilet and/or kitchen facilities. I’ve made do with showers at the Y, buckets and hot plates. To say I am a Microwave Queen is an understatement! Generally, if everything else about the living space was congenial, those lacks were not the end of the world.
I drive around and look at possible living spaces even when I have a place to live. While I am drawn to small houses, I usually look more at garages with good windows, lofts, garden sheds, storefronts and other places that could keep off the rain and chill. When I have been homeless, I’ve often felt frustrated at TPTB who insist that people cannot live in a place that is not up to code. To me, this seems rather two-faced, since that decision leaves many people sleeping in the woods or on heating grates or in the backs of sedans.
And then they chase homeless folks out of those places they’ve made for themselves because people struggling to survive “bother” those who have comfortable homes and nice incomes. There are few things I have as much rage about as I do the way we treat people without homes.
I feel angry at home-owning friends who are frightened by a man in dirty clothes panhandling (or simply sitting) at a shopping center or in a park. I don’t hear them complaining about the men in suits who sit at shopping centers or read books in parks. I guess a man with a latte in his hand can’t attack women.
Every community has its troublemakers, including the communities dressed in designer fashions, but I learned a valuable lesson as I made the effort to talk to panhandlers and other street people. Although I’ve often had homeless men verbally harass me, I found that when I took the time to talk to them, and mentioned that I was living in my truck, the were as respectful, human and nice as any other stranger. The harassment is just a game they play. Perhaps they’re bored, or perhaps they’re expressing their rage at being treated like slime by 95% of the people they see in a day.
As I walked the streets of Ballard, where I lived for four months one summer, exercising my two adorable dogs, often followed by my opinionated cat, I experienced all sorts of prejudice and meanness. People leaned in their front windows and glared at me. They took a leaf blower to my truck, deliberately scaring my cat into running away. (Fortunately, he safely crossed two arterials and went back to a former neighbor who left cat food outside.)
Couples would stop to admire my animals until it dawned on them that I was homeless; then they would draw together, women especially acting afraid of me, simply because I slept in my truck instead of in a bed in a house. The animals were still cute, I still had a job, and sometimes I’d even had a chance to take a shower or do my laundry that day. Even if I had none of those privileges, I’m about as harmless as they come.
I was lucky to have my truck; the prejudice that street people face is far worse.
For many years, I maintained a P.O. box in a rundown section of town. I often ran into people selling Seattle’s street paper The Real Change. Buskers played on the sidewalk, men hung out near the newspaper stands and a frowsy-haired woman loudly vented her rage at bosses and other workplace abusers, while watching her shopping carts full of her possessions.
Other people in the neighborhood told me that she had once been a medical doctor but had become psychotic and ended up on the street. The men (the same ones who yelled insults and sexist remarks at me) told me that they watched out for her. Eventually, she disappeared, and I began to worry about her. A local Mennonite church, I was told, had given her access to a house nearby. “She’s too paranoid to go into it much, but if she wants to be inside, she can be,” one of the panhandlers told me. I never saw her again, so I hope she’s adjusted to being inside.
I try to be caring and honest with homeless people, but I fuck up all the time. I offer a chocolate protein bar from the back of my truck; she takes it, but I think that I probably should have found a way to gracefully offer to pick up something (her choice, within my budget) before I go into the store.
I chuckle at a youngster standing outside a McDonald’s with a sign saying he wants a Big Mac. “Clever sign!” I think. I give him some peanuts, and watch him frown after me. Of course he wants a Big Mac. Kinsey Milhone isn’t the only one who lusts after them, and who wouldn’t want a hot meal on a rainy day?
I chat in a friendly way with the man in the park who offers to wash my windshield for a donation, suggesting places he might be able to get a job washing windshields. And then I feel angry when I realize he’s conned me out of money to buy beer. We both know I’m a foolish, middle class woman.
I stoop to pet the patient dog keeping a couple of young men company on the sidewalk. I greet all animals before I greet their people, but homeless folks resent it when people are more concerned about their pets than they are the people. For the record, all the pets I have met, who belong to homeless people, looked well fed and loved. I’ve seen more abused-looking critters at the dog park in Seattle’s ritzy Sand Point area than I’ve seen on the streets.
So I keep working on learning to be a good advocate for those less fortunate than I am, and I keep looking at all the places that I think could be used to provide housing for those who need it.
And I dream about a tiny house all my own.
Photos from stock.xchng.
Although I lived in my car for the summer at least twice during my thirties, that wasn’t forced homelessness; I was trying to be creative about the chunk that rent took out of my low income. Unfortunately, I found that living in my vehicle was usually more expensive than the rents I was paying. By the time one drives from food stop to shower facility to dog run to work, and eats instant or restaurant food much of the time, the gas and food expenses add up to more than I’d had to pay for rent. Whether one chooses it or not, living in a vehicle is stressful.
Because I chose to hold onto my critters, who were/are my family, finding living situations has always been a creative endeavor. I can’t count the number of times my “home” has not included a shower, toilet and/or kitchen facilities. I’ve made do with showers at the Y, buckets and hot plates. To say I am a Microwave Queen is an understatement! Generally, if everything else about the living space was congenial, those lacks were not the end of the world.
I drive around and look at possible living spaces even when I have a place to live. While I am drawn to small houses, I usually look more at garages with good windows, lofts, garden sheds, storefronts and other places that could keep off the rain and chill. When I have been homeless, I’ve often felt frustrated at TPTB who insist that people cannot live in a place that is not up to code. To me, this seems rather two-faced, since that decision leaves many people sleeping in the woods or on heating grates or in the backs of sedans.
And then they chase homeless folks out of those places they’ve made for themselves because people struggling to survive “bother” those who have comfortable homes and nice incomes. There are few things I have as much rage about as I do the way we treat people without homes.
I feel angry at home-owning friends who are frightened by a man in dirty clothes panhandling (or simply sitting) at a shopping center or in a park. I don’t hear them complaining about the men in suits who sit at shopping centers or read books in parks. I guess a man with a latte in his hand can’t attack women.
Every community has its troublemakers, including the communities dressed in designer fashions, but I learned a valuable lesson as I made the effort to talk to panhandlers and other street people. Although I’ve often had homeless men verbally harass me, I found that when I took the time to talk to them, and mentioned that I was living in my truck, the were as respectful, human and nice as any other stranger. The harassment is just a game they play. Perhaps they’re bored, or perhaps they’re expressing their rage at being treated like slime by 95% of the people they see in a day.
As I walked the streets of Ballard, where I lived for four months one summer, exercising my two adorable dogs, often followed by my opinionated cat, I experienced all sorts of prejudice and meanness. People leaned in their front windows and glared at me. They took a leaf blower to my truck, deliberately scaring my cat into running away. (Fortunately, he safely crossed two arterials and went back to a former neighbor who left cat food outside.)
Couples would stop to admire my animals until it dawned on them that I was homeless; then they would draw together, women especially acting afraid of me, simply because I slept in my truck instead of in a bed in a house. The animals were still cute, I still had a job, and sometimes I’d even had a chance to take a shower or do my laundry that day. Even if I had none of those privileges, I’m about as harmless as they come.
I was lucky to have my truck; the prejudice that street people face is far worse.
For many years, I maintained a P.O. box in a rundown section of town. I often ran into people selling Seattle’s street paper The Real Change. Buskers played on the sidewalk, men hung out near the newspaper stands and a frowsy-haired woman loudly vented her rage at bosses and other workplace abusers, while watching her shopping carts full of her possessions.
Other people in the neighborhood told me that she had once been a medical doctor but had become psychotic and ended up on the street. The men (the same ones who yelled insults and sexist remarks at me) told me that they watched out for her. Eventually, she disappeared, and I began to worry about her. A local Mennonite church, I was told, had given her access to a house nearby. “She’s too paranoid to go into it much, but if she wants to be inside, she can be,” one of the panhandlers told me. I never saw her again, so I hope she’s adjusted to being inside.
I try to be caring and honest with homeless people, but I fuck up all the time. I offer a chocolate protein bar from the back of my truck; she takes it, but I think that I probably should have found a way to gracefully offer to pick up something (her choice, within my budget) before I go into the store.
I chuckle at a youngster standing outside a McDonald’s with a sign saying he wants a Big Mac. “Clever sign!” I think. I give him some peanuts, and watch him frown after me. Of course he wants a Big Mac. Kinsey Milhone isn’t the only one who lusts after them, and who wouldn’t want a hot meal on a rainy day?
I chat in a friendly way with the man in the park who offers to wash my windshield for a donation, suggesting places he might be able to get a job washing windshields. And then I feel angry when I realize he’s conned me out of money to buy beer. We both know I’m a foolish, middle class woman.
I stoop to pet the patient dog keeping a couple of young men company on the sidewalk. I greet all animals before I greet their people, but homeless folks resent it when people are more concerned about their pets than they are the people. For the record, all the pets I have met, who belong to homeless people, looked well fed and loved. I’ve seen more abused-looking critters at the dog park in Seattle’s ritzy Sand Point area than I’ve seen on the streets.
So I keep working on learning to be a good advocate for those less fortunate than I am, and I keep looking at all the places that I think could be used to provide housing for those who need it.
And I dream about a tiny house all my own.
Photos from stock.xchng.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Destination Unknown
I seem to have conflicting ideas of where I want to go with this blog. Intellectually, I plan for it to be a place to post anything I deem worthy of sharing, no matter what the subject. Emotionally, I want to stay with my writing process, exploring and explaining each step I take.
The steps I’m taking are important to me, and I think some of my commitment hinges on staying with the themes introduced in the three initial posts, which have to do with questions of mortality and my dreams and needs around those questions. Although I do want to write about Lucky, for example, right now I need to do that in a different inner space.
The limitation intrinsic with exploring these initial themes is that I do not often have the insight and energy to go there. My daily life is made up of dogs and dog parks, emerging pussy willows and forsythia buds, cloud forms and light on the water. That and roommate hassles, money worries, menu planning and dirty dishes. The sublime and the mundane.
A friend called my blog “brave” and I suppose there is some bravery involved. I don’t feel courageous, really. I am just following my process, which is very different than it was ten years ago -- or even two years ago. So much of my life is inner, these days. I have few places to dream, fewer places to share those dreams. I have few friends, fewer people I can trust with much at all. I am no longer frantic, more self-contained.
I originally named the blog “Musings”, not because I thought that was a great name, but because I knew I had no real focus, and I didn’t want to limit it. But, after reading blogs with clever names, I changed the name to “Aspen Tangential”, which is certainly more colorful and personal, particularly to anyone who has listened to me ramble on. I’d like to find a picture of the Maroon Bells to put behind the title, even though Aspen, the place, is just a memory of my ideal Colorado, because that area is so beautiful.
I’ve needed to write this post all week, and have put off posts about Lucky or the dog park because this just had to come first. Now that it is written, who knows what tangent I shall follow next? Always, the journey beckons.
And, as always, nothing to do with the ski area!
The steps I’m taking are important to me, and I think some of my commitment hinges on staying with the themes introduced in the three initial posts, which have to do with questions of mortality and my dreams and needs around those questions. Although I do want to write about Lucky, for example, right now I need to do that in a different inner space.
The limitation intrinsic with exploring these initial themes is that I do not often have the insight and energy to go there. My daily life is made up of dogs and dog parks, emerging pussy willows and forsythia buds, cloud forms and light on the water. That and roommate hassles, money worries, menu planning and dirty dishes. The sublime and the mundane.
A friend called my blog “brave” and I suppose there is some bravery involved. I don’t feel courageous, really. I am just following my process, which is very different than it was ten years ago -- or even two years ago. So much of my life is inner, these days. I have few places to dream, fewer places to share those dreams. I have few friends, fewer people I can trust with much at all. I am no longer frantic, more self-contained.
I originally named the blog “Musings”, not because I thought that was a great name, but because I knew I had no real focus, and I didn’t want to limit it. But, after reading blogs with clever names, I changed the name to “Aspen Tangential”, which is certainly more colorful and personal, particularly to anyone who has listened to me ramble on. I’d like to find a picture of the Maroon Bells to put behind the title, even though Aspen, the place, is just a memory of my ideal Colorado, because that area is so beautiful.
I’ve needed to write this post all week, and have put off posts about Lucky or the dog park because this just had to come first. Now that it is written, who knows what tangent I shall follow next? Always, the journey beckons.
And, as always, nothing to do with the ski area!
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Accepting Discipline
This writing in a blog is making me have to have goals and such. Not my usual way of writing.
I mostly learned to write through years of keeping highly personal and emotional journals. Long before Julia Cameron arrived on the scene, someone gave me a book entitled The New Diary by Tristine Rainer. I learned lots of techniques from that book, and believe using those skills enabled me to achieve a certain honesty in my writing.
Although I often shared entries from my journals, I also valued the privacy and safety that writing only for myself gave me. In that safe space, I gave myself free rein. I felt free to write exactly what I was feeling, even if the subject matter was far too personal to share with the wider world.
All writers, I assume, need that space to create. I think that safe space played a large part in my learning to accept myself for who I am. wrinkles and all, as they say. As expressing my emotions became easier, I gradually veered away from a regular writing practice. I’ve grieved that loss for half a lifetime, but have never developed the discipline to recover that lost identity. I’m trying to reclaim this most important facet of my personality now.
I’ve been thinking that writing a blog is similar to writing a column for a newspaper or magazine. Wherever my writing starts, the end result must encapsulate a certain subject, rather than becoming one of my infamous tangential journeys through the tangle of my thoughts. This is a new, and rather fascinating, discipline. I think I’m ready. I think I like it.
I mostly learned to write through years of keeping highly personal and emotional journals. Long before Julia Cameron arrived on the scene, someone gave me a book entitled The New Diary by Tristine Rainer. I learned lots of techniques from that book, and believe using those skills enabled me to achieve a certain honesty in my writing.
Although I often shared entries from my journals, I also valued the privacy and safety that writing only for myself gave me. In that safe space, I gave myself free rein. I felt free to write exactly what I was feeling, even if the subject matter was far too personal to share with the wider world.
All writers, I assume, need that space to create. I think that safe space played a large part in my learning to accept myself for who I am. wrinkles and all, as they say. As expressing my emotions became easier, I gradually veered away from a regular writing practice. I’ve grieved that loss for half a lifetime, but have never developed the discipline to recover that lost identity. I’m trying to reclaim this most important facet of my personality now.
I’ve been thinking that writing a blog is similar to writing a column for a newspaper or magazine. Wherever my writing starts, the end result must encapsulate a certain subject, rather than becoming one of my infamous tangential journeys through the tangle of my thoughts. This is a new, and rather fascinating, discipline. I think I’m ready. I think I like it.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Bucket List
Bucket list! What a term. LOL
When I was very small, just old enough to know there was a joke I wasn’t getting, my parents went to see It’s a Mad Mad Mad World, which is a madcap movie, the all-star cast of which reads like a board from the old vaudeville days. In the opening of the movie, Jimmy Durante dies on dusty roadcut, literally kicking a bucket down the hill as he dies.
That’s one saying whose meaning I will never forget. My mother may never forget trying to explain the joke to me while quieting my younger brother, who apparently screamed through the entire movie. He always was a little slow on the uptake. . .
Like everyone, I have a list of things I have always wanted to do someday. When the “someday” feels uncomfortably as if it might pass unheeded, one begins to realize that, although many of those dreams may never have come to be, the hope one holds out for the future is a hope that keeps the present doable.
In no particular order, some of my dreams include the following:
- I’ve always wanted to spend a year at Gallaudet , becoming really proficient in American Sign Language.
- I want to see the night sky far from the cities, so that I can finally see the stars again. It has been too long.
- I’d like to go back to Colorado, where I spent the first 22 years of my life. I don’t know if I want an extended visit or to live there permanently, as I very much enjoy the Pacific Northwest, but a part of my heart is still there. I dream of spending a winter in a small, cozy cabin near Independence Pass. I wonder if they have WiFi there?
- I’d like to go to the wilderness, perhaps on horseback or perhaps via canoe. Some of my fondest memories involve canoe trips to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. In the early 1980’s, we could dip our cups over the side of the canoe for a drink. Ten years later, the giardia was too present to make that safe. Still a beautiful place. And, oh, the skinny-dipping!
- My repeated adventures living in my vehicle had their genesis in my dreams of traveling the US in my camper van. These dreams leave no room for heat, cold, unfriendly towns or mechanical trouble. They’ve kept me going through many a winter night, curled up with a road atlas and a Fodor’s Guide.
- I’d like to become a competent rider. As disabilities take their toll and the diagnoses become more scary, this dream feels less likely to happen than it did a year or so ago. The memory of riding the trails deep into the beautiful San Juan National Forest, with my legs long in the stirrups and my seat deep in the saddle make me know it is possible to find that feeling again. Besides, I’m no longer so pigeon-toed that I’ll catch the toe of my boot in my opposite bell-bottom and go flying when hurrying towards the stable. Age has its perks.
I’d also like to see a Broadway show or three, learn to sing, become a photographer, spend an autumn in New England, or go to the Greek Islands (Mamma Mia!, here I come!). My heart wants to rescue and rehabilitate any variety of critters, although horses and dogs are closest to my heart.
I’m sorry I never was a parent, and hope someday to become an honorary grandparent. I’d like to teach, perhaps in a riding school or a senior center’s computer lab. I wish I’d known, when my mom used to encourage me to become a librarian, that librarians in the 21st century would become experts in technology and online research, not just the dusty tomes of the dreaded Dewey Decimal System.
I don’t know which of these dreams I’ll be able to fulfill before I emulate Jimmy Durante, but their presence has some part in keeping my spirit alive.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Breaking the Energy Barrier
I want to be writing, but it is so hard for me to get started. I’m scared, I guess, stuffing the lack of freedom I feel to express myself fully. I have not embraced writing on a daily basis in many, many years. Talent but no energy.
I look at my cousins, who are engineers, wilderness guides, mechanics, other successful people, and I know I must have smarts and talent. I don’t doubt I have writing talent, because I know how awesome some of what I’ve written is. But one is not a writer if one does not write. It is small comfort to know that I use most of my energy for surviving, and always have.
I need to do this for myself, though. I need to get something out there, to prove once and for all that I can do it. Proving to other people is one thing; mostly I have to prove it to myself. That doesn’t require snarky wit, although I may do that on occasion. It doesn’t require an interesting life; I can find beauty in tiny things. I often do. Writing requires me to write. That’s all. That’s so huge and terrifying.
If I do nothing else in the next 2 or 3 years, I need to do this. I am making an appointment with myself, daily, to write.
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