Apologies for lack of posts. I am in Bangkok, Thailand.
Years ago my friend and mentor, John Gardner taught me a fine lesson. Well, except for the fact that I have to learn it over and over. Why? I ask myself is it so very hard to change my ways?
At the time of the lesson, I drove to see him in an extremely funky old fourth hand car. The tires were bald that you could see the fabric on all four. When I awoke with a flat tire, John kindly asked me to explain my theory about the tire. I said that I had hoped they would be fine as I didn't want to spend the money replacing them. (I probably didn't have the money.) I implied that maybe they would get better. John sat me down and told me that he was going to buy me new tires but that he wanted me to understand that "Tires don't get better."
Somehow this was a life lesson. Teeth that hurt didn't get better. If my evil dentist in Oregon told me they were fine and they still hurt, then I needed a new dentist, not the hope that the pain was an illusion.
Now, the reason this has come up on my first day in Bangkok is that I got this huge blister on my heel walking Bella to school (running actually) last week in a pair of boots that I wore without socks because I was in a hurry. The blister killed, but I didn't really look at it because I decided to wear flip flops and it would air out. Air out it did and also got infected. So I have arrived in Thailand with an infection on my foot that I could have avoided if I had taken ten minutes to wash it and put antibiotic cream on it. Foot infection in a tropical country is such a no-no I can't even let myself contemplate it.
Sometimes I am the dumbest person I know. Susan Dodge reminded me of this when I got sick last year with parasites. So, Susan, I will go to a doctor before I need an amputation. And John, I am trying to learn your lesson of taking care of things before they are terminal, things that can't take care of themselves by magic.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
How Do We Know Who We Are?
I have been worrying about who we are as Americans these days. Are we the people drone killing random people all over the planet? Are we the people who are forcing death and destruction all over the planet with our GMO seeds? Are we the people who live under the whacky illusion that we have the best lives and best medicine and best schools in the world? Are we the people who cherish our god-given right to kill anyone who might be trying to steal our toaster oven? Yes we are.
But I hold myself aloof from that crap. I help people. I celebrate differences. I carry guilt for the actions of my country. I educate myself. But my question today is: I know these mental constructs that I have grown through my life. But, are these illusions just as some of our ideas of America seem to be illusions?
How do I get to the core of me? At different times in my blog I have talked about my past. Today I was trying to remember moments from my childhood that were split second glimpses into who I am today.
The first moment that came to mind was the moment I learned to read. I can still see the classroom. I can see how the light was. I remember the page in the big book that we were looking at. We were learning the "sight see" method at that time. You didn't sound out words. You recognized them. Collectively we became fast readers and terrible spellers, a fact that is now of little worry because of spell check, but caused some real pain in the intervening years.
So, I was sitting on the right side of the classroom, near the windows about 5 rows back. I had on a plaid dress with a white collar so it must have been autumn. The teacher was very tall and had glasses on and a pointer in her hand. She was pointing to flip pages of a big book called "See Spot Run." and suddenly I was reading the lines before she pointed them out. I felt like I was home, not having known something was missing until I found it. I have never stopped reading. It is one of the most important parts of my life. Looking back I know that some part of me as a first grader knew that this was a big deal, a very big deal.
I have hardly ever had a conversation with a friend that hasn't included some talk about books. When I was approaching my first day of teaching at a Waldorf school, the thought that gave me momentary panic was "What do you talk about with people (the kids) who don't know how to read?" I did laugh at myself and quickly realized that "God, you dope, you teach them to read. AND you tell them stories in the meanwhile."
Congruent to my discovery of reading was the discovery that I loved to tell stories and I loved to have an audience. This nugget of self awareness led to many steps toward becoming or realizing or giving the nod to who I am.
Do you have a flash memory of seeing the acorn that would grow into the oak you are today?
But I hold myself aloof from that crap. I help people. I celebrate differences. I carry guilt for the actions of my country. I educate myself. But my question today is: I know these mental constructs that I have grown through my life. But, are these illusions just as some of our ideas of America seem to be illusions?
How do I get to the core of me? At different times in my blog I have talked about my past. Today I was trying to remember moments from my childhood that were split second glimpses into who I am today.
The first moment that came to mind was the moment I learned to read. I can still see the classroom. I can see how the light was. I remember the page in the big book that we were looking at. We were learning the "sight see" method at that time. You didn't sound out words. You recognized them. Collectively we became fast readers and terrible spellers, a fact that is now of little worry because of spell check, but caused some real pain in the intervening years.
So, I was sitting on the right side of the classroom, near the windows about 5 rows back. I had on a plaid dress with a white collar so it must have been autumn. The teacher was very tall and had glasses on and a pointer in her hand. She was pointing to flip pages of a big book called "See Spot Run." and suddenly I was reading the lines before she pointed them out. I felt like I was home, not having known something was missing until I found it. I have never stopped reading. It is one of the most important parts of my life. Looking back I know that some part of me as a first grader knew that this was a big deal, a very big deal.
I have hardly ever had a conversation with a friend that hasn't included some talk about books. When I was approaching my first day of teaching at a Waldorf school, the thought that gave me momentary panic was "What do you talk about with people (the kids) who don't know how to read?" I did laugh at myself and quickly realized that "God, you dope, you teach them to read. AND you tell them stories in the meanwhile."
Congruent to my discovery of reading was the discovery that I loved to tell stories and I loved to have an audience. This nugget of self awareness led to many steps toward becoming or realizing or giving the nod to who I am.
Do you have a flash memory of seeing the acorn that would grow into the oak you are today?
Monday, October 21, 2013
What is real?
When I moved to Drain, Oregon (no shit!Drain!) in 1969, it was an isolated backwater logging town in the middle of nowhere. Then logging died. Simple math, really. You cut down all the trees, pollute the river with the run off and then the mill shuts. Now, it looks like there is a minor epidemic of grape growing for wine on the naked hills. it does look a lot better than the crop of stumps that was covering the hills when we lived there. So, when we moved to Drain, there were very few people who had been "away". We had been living in New York and people in Drain did have TV. Most had seen New York on TV. But, talking to neighbors it soon became clear that to them, in spite of TV, New York was just a bigger version of Drain. They could not make the mental leap from the 19th century poverty and ignorance that they enjoyed to the size, prosperity, culture and so on of New York. They could not do it.
That is one side of the equation. Today, sitting by the Plaza in Ashland, Oregon, I listened to several conversations of other people watching the action with me. The action was Hollywood setting up a scene for the movie "Wild" which will be filmed here tomorrow starring Reese Witherspoon. I loved the autobiographical book and the scene being filmed actually took place about 13 years ago. But not quite at the same time of year. It is full-on Autumn now and some of the trees have lost their leaves and others have turned gorgeous fall colors. I am guessing that the scene they are filming took place in late August.
So what we were watching was a ton of people stripping the brown, tan, red leaves off the trees on the plaza. Then another crew was replacing them with green silk leaves, then the third crew was painting the bright green silk leaves with a wash of filmy brown. (I think the color of the silk ones was a little too 'spring green." I found this all very amusing. I sit in the Plaza for my late afternoon coffee almost every fall afternoon watching the pass and chatting with friends. This was fun.
The conversations I heard around me from random people centered mostly on exclamations about how surprised they were at the artifice involved in movie making. Remarks about how they would never believe a film again. The word 'fake' came up a lot. I felt a little lost.
The folks in Drain 44 years ago didn't comprehend what they saw. These people think that what they see in movies is real, were upset that illusion and even artifice was involved. So my question that I ask myself is what happens when either group sees a Godzilla or a Raiders of the Lost Arc or an good old after the Nuclear holocaust kind of flick?
I choose not to watch horror movies or slasher movies because I don't enjoy having certain images imprinted in my memory. But, I get a kick from the art of cinema when it does its magic and transforms me to another place and another time. I feel kind of badly that illusions were being shattered today. It kind of reminded me of my feelings about the tawdry process of taking down the Christmas tree. I never wanted to do that in front of my kids. I wanted them to remember the magic and be shielded from the reality. Maybe Hollywood should keep making movies in big studio sets hidden from the public.
I will go to the Plaza a few times tomorrow and gawk. In two days everything will be returned to normal and it will appear that we had a midsummer night's dream. Do you think they will glue the brown leaves back on? I hope so.
That is one side of the equation. Today, sitting by the Plaza in Ashland, Oregon, I listened to several conversations of other people watching the action with me. The action was Hollywood setting up a scene for the movie "Wild" which will be filmed here tomorrow starring Reese Witherspoon. I loved the autobiographical book and the scene being filmed actually took place about 13 years ago. But not quite at the same time of year. It is full-on Autumn now and some of the trees have lost their leaves and others have turned gorgeous fall colors. I am guessing that the scene they are filming took place in late August.
So what we were watching was a ton of people stripping the brown, tan, red leaves off the trees on the plaza. Then another crew was replacing them with green silk leaves, then the third crew was painting the bright green silk leaves with a wash of filmy brown. (I think the color of the silk ones was a little too 'spring green." I found this all very amusing. I sit in the Plaza for my late afternoon coffee almost every fall afternoon watching the pass and chatting with friends. This was fun.
The conversations I heard around me from random people centered mostly on exclamations about how surprised they were at the artifice involved in movie making. Remarks about how they would never believe a film again. The word 'fake' came up a lot. I felt a little lost.
The folks in Drain 44 years ago didn't comprehend what they saw. These people think that what they see in movies is real, were upset that illusion and even artifice was involved. So my question that I ask myself is what happens when either group sees a Godzilla or a Raiders of the Lost Arc or an good old after the Nuclear holocaust kind of flick?
I choose not to watch horror movies or slasher movies because I don't enjoy having certain images imprinted in my memory. But, I get a kick from the art of cinema when it does its magic and transforms me to another place and another time. I feel kind of badly that illusions were being shattered today. It kind of reminded me of my feelings about the tawdry process of taking down the Christmas tree. I never wanted to do that in front of my kids. I wanted them to remember the magic and be shielded from the reality. Maybe Hollywood should keep making movies in big studio sets hidden from the public.
I will go to the Plaza a few times tomorrow and gawk. In two days everything will be returned to normal and it will appear that we had a midsummer night's dream. Do you think they will glue the brown leaves back on? I hope so.
Friday, October 18, 2013
Walking in the mountains past glorious marijuana farms.
Things are certainly different from when I was young. When I first encountered marijuana it was in small bits, skinny little joints rolled in secret with a lot of preparation. Yes, we wanted to get high, but back in the early sixties the whole scene had a lot of ritual. It was something new and special for middle class kids. It was very illegal, but most of the cops didn't know what it looked like or smelled like.
We went somewhere where we wouldn't be disturbed. We picked out great music. We only smoked with people we trusted. We lit candles and incense. We spread out on pillows on the floor. We passed the joint around, hardly whispering. We didn't drink booze. We wanted an experience and we had one.
We felt a wild kinship with the great rebels of the past and present. We read "Confessions of an English Opium Eater", Baudelaire, "The Tibetan Book of the Dead, Neil Cassidy. We felt a kinship with Lewis Carroll. We were "Alice in Wonderland". We were stoned.We talked about how famous people thought and wrote when they were stoned, like Freud and Arthur Conan Doyle. We were part of a great tradition. It was sacred business.
One of the comparisons I can make with today is the difference between a First People ceremony where sacred tobacco was ceremoniously smoked and someone today puffing away at two or three packs of Marlboros every day. A different ball of wax entirely.
From what I understand, the dope we smoked was incredibly mild compared with the stuff out there now. It was mellow. It was pretty harmless. It spread like wildfire. People started wandering away from fraternity parties at colleges to go "do their own thing", as it was called. Soon, the cutting edge started "turning on, tuning in, and dropping out." A sea change was coming and LSD was that tipping point. At least among people I knew.
Again, the new wave came with a lot of rituals. After all, we were going to see God, peel away all the layers of maya. You can tell we were East Coast people. This was the Timothy Leary people. On the other coast, Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters had the opposite scene going. We were drawn to the exuberance, the wildness, the Far Fucking Outness of the people who were painting the redwoods dayglow colors, and writing books like "Cuckoos Nest" and delivering Electric Cool Aid to thousands. Out West was where it was at.
I am sure that everyone has their romantic stories of their first toned experiences. But I am talking about a huge giant collective experience. Today, you can't walk down the street without smelling dope being smoked. It is growing everywhere. Huge drug cartels are killing for their piece of the fortune. Many people can't get through the day without it. I stopped almost as soon as I started. Fortunately for me the seeing God thing translated into the reality that I fell asleep every time I smoked. Lucky for me.
I just couldn't help remembering this today as Jane and I were walking up by the late, marveling at the autumn colors and looking down on green houses filled with giant plants. Brought back memories. Each joint had an exotic provenance. "This is from the Golden Triangle. This is from Afghanistan. Great Mexican shit." We had our myths and loved them for a time.
We went somewhere where we wouldn't be disturbed. We picked out great music. We only smoked with people we trusted. We lit candles and incense. We spread out on pillows on the floor. We passed the joint around, hardly whispering. We didn't drink booze. We wanted an experience and we had one.
We felt a wild kinship with the great rebels of the past and present. We read "Confessions of an English Opium Eater", Baudelaire, "The Tibetan Book of the Dead, Neil Cassidy. We felt a kinship with Lewis Carroll. We were "Alice in Wonderland". We were stoned.We talked about how famous people thought and wrote when they were stoned, like Freud and Arthur Conan Doyle. We were part of a great tradition. It was sacred business.
One of the comparisons I can make with today is the difference between a First People ceremony where sacred tobacco was ceremoniously smoked and someone today puffing away at two or three packs of Marlboros every day. A different ball of wax entirely.
From what I understand, the dope we smoked was incredibly mild compared with the stuff out there now. It was mellow. It was pretty harmless. It spread like wildfire. People started wandering away from fraternity parties at colleges to go "do their own thing", as it was called. Soon, the cutting edge started "turning on, tuning in, and dropping out." A sea change was coming and LSD was that tipping point. At least among people I knew.
Again, the new wave came with a lot of rituals. After all, we were going to see God, peel away all the layers of maya. You can tell we were East Coast people. This was the Timothy Leary people. On the other coast, Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters had the opposite scene going. We were drawn to the exuberance, the wildness, the Far Fucking Outness of the people who were painting the redwoods dayglow colors, and writing books like "Cuckoos Nest" and delivering Electric Cool Aid to thousands. Out West was where it was at.
I am sure that everyone has their romantic stories of their first toned experiences. But I am talking about a huge giant collective experience. Today, you can't walk down the street without smelling dope being smoked. It is growing everywhere. Huge drug cartels are killing for their piece of the fortune. Many people can't get through the day without it. I stopped almost as soon as I started. Fortunately for me the seeing God thing translated into the reality that I fell asleep every time I smoked. Lucky for me.
I just couldn't help remembering this today as Jane and I were walking up by the late, marveling at the autumn colors and looking down on green houses filled with giant plants. Brought back memories. Each joint had an exotic provenance. "This is from the Golden Triangle. This is from Afghanistan. Great Mexican shit." We had our myths and loved them for a time.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Look up Apodments in Seattle
Yes, the word apodment has the word "pod" in it. The rental prices in Seattle are going up by the minute. Lots of students there. Lots of young people starting out, and like everywhere in this country, lots of baby boomers. Ten years ago in quiet neighborhoods like Ballard people were building 4 plex units in their back yards. Then, single family houses were being torn down and skinny 3 or 4 story apartment houses were being thrown up. Then, within a few years, whole blocks were being made into apartments. Now, the new thing is to make these tiny little pod units with no parking, no room for landscaping and where you can put 25 couples into a lot that was formerly a single family house.
I have mixed feelings about these places. "There goes the neighborhood" is no joke here. Some of them look like 1950s Russian design. Not gorgeous. I think of the tenements in New York in the 1800s. Absolutely amazing how many people could cram into a tiny space. At least these new ones have indoor plumbing, or plumbing at all for that matter. Seattle today doesn't look like the kind of place where many folks will gather on the front stoop on a summer evening. Who knows? Maybe a whole new social structure will be born and redefine the idea of neighborhood.
On the other side of my mind a little voice is happy that there will be affordable housing for many who can't be in the game because of the high prices. I can see young folks who have jobs getting their sea legs economically by having a new, clean, convenient to town place to sleep. I say 'place to sleep' because I picture these kids going out for coffee, going to work, going to the gym, going out for food and a beer and then going home to sleep. I don't picture a lot of entertaining and lounging going on in these tiny spaces.
Then I think about the old folks. Maybe this is the answer to a prayer for an infirm elder. If these rent for $500 a month and an assisted living joint costs over $9,000 or something a month, maybe a geezer could have more fun and more independence and more random luxuries (like massage) for their money in such a place. But, I am not the first to think of this. They are now building granny pods with wheelchair wide doors, handicapped bathrooms, surveillance cameras ( just one step up from NSA, one step down from personal drones) to address the really old or infirm.
With all the prosperity in Seattle (and it is evident everywhere) with all the bright young things creating bright things, are we actually in the business of building slums or is this a creative answer to overcrowding and overpricing? I don't know. I assume that if it is going on in Seattle, it is going on in lots of places. I can't quite sort out my feelings about whether this would be for me or not. I have certainly considered plunking one of those lovely little houses in some yard somewhere for my old age and renting it on airb&b while I can still travel. Being old, being young, lots of logistical problems. Some of the places I saw actually look a lot like nursing homes with common eating and social areas. It would kind of take away from the excitement of painting that first college apartment that had fifty coats of paint already. It was sort of fun going from a middle class upbringing to a sketchy edgy place.But then, we didn't work all day and never dreamed of going to the gym. Different times.
I have mixed feelings about these places. "There goes the neighborhood" is no joke here. Some of them look like 1950s Russian design. Not gorgeous. I think of the tenements in New York in the 1800s. Absolutely amazing how many people could cram into a tiny space. At least these new ones have indoor plumbing, or plumbing at all for that matter. Seattle today doesn't look like the kind of place where many folks will gather on the front stoop on a summer evening. Who knows? Maybe a whole new social structure will be born and redefine the idea of neighborhood.
On the other side of my mind a little voice is happy that there will be affordable housing for many who can't be in the game because of the high prices. I can see young folks who have jobs getting their sea legs economically by having a new, clean, convenient to town place to sleep. I say 'place to sleep' because I picture these kids going out for coffee, going to work, going to the gym, going out for food and a beer and then going home to sleep. I don't picture a lot of entertaining and lounging going on in these tiny spaces.
Then I think about the old folks. Maybe this is the answer to a prayer for an infirm elder. If these rent for $500 a month and an assisted living joint costs over $9,000 or something a month, maybe a geezer could have more fun and more independence and more random luxuries (like massage) for their money in such a place. But, I am not the first to think of this. They are now building granny pods with wheelchair wide doors, handicapped bathrooms, surveillance cameras ( just one step up from NSA, one step down from personal drones) to address the really old or infirm.
With all the prosperity in Seattle (and it is evident everywhere) with all the bright young things creating bright things, are we actually in the business of building slums or is this a creative answer to overcrowding and overpricing? I don't know. I assume that if it is going on in Seattle, it is going on in lots of places. I can't quite sort out my feelings about whether this would be for me or not. I have certainly considered plunking one of those lovely little houses in some yard somewhere for my old age and renting it on airb&b while I can still travel. Being old, being young, lots of logistical problems. Some of the places I saw actually look a lot like nursing homes with common eating and social areas. It would kind of take away from the excitement of painting that first college apartment that had fifty coats of paint already. It was sort of fun going from a middle class upbringing to a sketchy edgy place.But then, we didn't work all day and never dreamed of going to the gym. Different times.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
I went to this conference last week for people who had had traumatic experiences on cruises.
I had never been on a cruise, but I figured that my accumulated experiences at sea qualified me as a participant. I also wanted to meet people who were suffering from PTSD in a way that maybe I could relate to. It was relatively inexpensive. It was only a week. I was a fully crazy idea. Now I know.
The cruise ship was never going to leave port in Florida. The idea was that we could learn to feel safe again and resume our life of cruising. Never mind that it was hurricane season. Never mind that it was a collection of crazed people in a confined environment.
Right away I knew why I had never been on a cruise. The lines to board the ship were slow. People were so uptight. They had tons of luggage. I had a little day pack. What the hell could they have in those gigantic suitcases? They mostly all looked like KMart casual, tee shirts with glitter, too tight pants, and big hair. That is except for the Europeans. God, do Italians know how to dress well? The answer is "yes".
So, lines are bad enough, but lines of people facing their fears are even worse. The guy in front of me had green neon flip flops on. Right away, as if we were best friends, he asked me to look at the place where his little toe had been. "Oh gross!" I said. His toe had been chewed off by a rat when he had passed out on the deck one night. Every time he passed out he awoke having nightmares about rats. "Is it possible that booze is your problem?" I probed. He didn't think so, it had never bothered him before the rat incident. "Oh shit," His attention quickly turned away from me and he was proudly showing off his war wound to the next people in the line.
People were definitely getting agitated. The beauty of the program became apparent when the loudspeaker came on and a soothing sympathetic, low modulated voice told us that we were safe and to shut our eyes for a minute and start taking deep breaths. Good. A few people quieted down. "That's better. Focus on the positive. Deep breath." Some people can take deep breaths and still talk in hysterical voices, but most started getting into it.
I flash backed to a flashback. When I was filling out the application to the conference, I relived some of my worst moments at sea. I felt nauseous. Who knew how shallowly these memories hid below the surface ready to pounce?
Stay tuned for the next episode of The Shadow.
The cruise ship was never going to leave port in Florida. The idea was that we could learn to feel safe again and resume our life of cruising. Never mind that it was hurricane season. Never mind that it was a collection of crazed people in a confined environment.
Right away I knew why I had never been on a cruise. The lines to board the ship were slow. People were so uptight. They had tons of luggage. I had a little day pack. What the hell could they have in those gigantic suitcases? They mostly all looked like KMart casual, tee shirts with glitter, too tight pants, and big hair. That is except for the Europeans. God, do Italians know how to dress well? The answer is "yes".
So, lines are bad enough, but lines of people facing their fears are even worse. The guy in front of me had green neon flip flops on. Right away, as if we were best friends, he asked me to look at the place where his little toe had been. "Oh gross!" I said. His toe had been chewed off by a rat when he had passed out on the deck one night. Every time he passed out he awoke having nightmares about rats. "Is it possible that booze is your problem?" I probed. He didn't think so, it had never bothered him before the rat incident. "Oh shit," His attention quickly turned away from me and he was proudly showing off his war wound to the next people in the line.
People were definitely getting agitated. The beauty of the program became apparent when the loudspeaker came on and a soothing sympathetic, low modulated voice told us that we were safe and to shut our eyes for a minute and start taking deep breaths. Good. A few people quieted down. "That's better. Focus on the positive. Deep breath." Some people can take deep breaths and still talk in hysterical voices, but most started getting into it.
I flash backed to a flashback. When I was filling out the application to the conference, I relived some of my worst moments at sea. I felt nauseous. Who knew how shallowly these memories hid below the surface ready to pounce?
Stay tuned for the next episode of The Shadow.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
I am upset again.
Whence comes my determination to finish this damned book, "The World According to Monsanto"? It is the slowest reading of a book in my lifetime. I am often a book a day kind of gal. I can only handle 6 or 7 pages of this book until I hit my wall. The weird thing is that I thought I knew much of this story. I have been to Monsanto protests. I have lived through Agent Orange, Dioxin, DDT, Bovine Growth Hormone. But the scope of this GMO nightmare and its ability to change the planet and everyone on it is so horrific that it makes me sick. It is probably making us all sick.
Two days ago I read about the invasion of Brazil, Argentina, Paraguay and other countries in SA by Monsanto and Roundup Ready GMO soy beans. The scope of the invasion is mind blowing. Hundreds of thousands of peasant farmers have lost their land and migrated to city slums when these crops ruined their lives and their health. As we all know soy beans have some properties that mock estrogen. RR soybeans, genetically modified by the mad scientists have caused girl children in Argentina to get their periods at age 3. These girls didn't even necessarily eat the beans, they lived nearby the fields which were sown with the GM seeds. It makes me sick.
In our own country more and more women are having trouble getting pregnant. More and more kids are suffering from behavioral problems, more and more babies are being born sick. Why can't we stop this? In many Latin American countries they are openly counting the invasion by Monsanto as worse than the conquests by the conquistadors.
I understand that I have come back to this again and again. Sorry. Many states are soon voting on GMO labeling. It would be a place to start. Also some places in the US are trying to have GMO free zones. Another good idea. The virus is unleashed and spreading wildly. But it is still worth fighting.
I return in my memory to the Mayan peasant in Guatemala who wouldn't cook me broccoli. When I asked her why not she said that since the Dole company started growing broccoli in their hills, they had their first remembered cases of cancer, more every year. (Dole uses DDT there which is manufactured in the USA, forbidden for use here but brought back to us on our food grown elsewhere.) This woman said that she understood that we liked the poisonous food in our country but she chose not to use it because of the cancer. With RR GMO food, she won't have a choice not to poison her kids. Wind and water will take care of that. Bad, bad mojo.
Two days ago I read about the invasion of Brazil, Argentina, Paraguay and other countries in SA by Monsanto and Roundup Ready GMO soy beans. The scope of the invasion is mind blowing. Hundreds of thousands of peasant farmers have lost their land and migrated to city slums when these crops ruined their lives and their health. As we all know soy beans have some properties that mock estrogen. RR soybeans, genetically modified by the mad scientists have caused girl children in Argentina to get their periods at age 3. These girls didn't even necessarily eat the beans, they lived nearby the fields which were sown with the GM seeds. It makes me sick.
In our own country more and more women are having trouble getting pregnant. More and more kids are suffering from behavioral problems, more and more babies are being born sick. Why can't we stop this? In many Latin American countries they are openly counting the invasion by Monsanto as worse than the conquests by the conquistadors.
I understand that I have come back to this again and again. Sorry. Many states are soon voting on GMO labeling. It would be a place to start. Also some places in the US are trying to have GMO free zones. Another good idea. The virus is unleashed and spreading wildly. But it is still worth fighting.
I return in my memory to the Mayan peasant in Guatemala who wouldn't cook me broccoli. When I asked her why not she said that since the Dole company started growing broccoli in their hills, they had their first remembered cases of cancer, more every year. (Dole uses DDT there which is manufactured in the USA, forbidden for use here but brought back to us on our food grown elsewhere.) This woman said that she understood that we liked the poisonous food in our country but she chose not to use it because of the cancer. With RR GMO food, she won't have a choice not to poison her kids. Wind and water will take care of that. Bad, bad mojo.
Friday, October 11, 2013
I Am Not Laughing Anymore
I laughed when a friend in Marblehead told me what she had to do to get her kid's attention. Despite repeated naggings, her kids rooms were always a mess. She wasn't asking much in her opinion. She was asking that, when the cleaning help came, they could vacuum the floor. She further had asked that laundry be put in the laundry hamper and sheets be changed once in a while.
I would have gone a lot further if it were me. My kids didn't grow up with cleaning help, nor did I do their laundry. Well, that started when my son was about 11 and I dyed all his clothes a nice color of pink. I guess it wasn't all that OK to go to gym class in pink boxers. I just stuck his laundry back in his room hoping he wouldn't notice. He came storming into my bedroom (not allowed) and put his hands on his hips and declared, "I am NEVER going to let you do my laundry again. NEVER. Do you understand me?" I had to bite my cheeks to keep from laughing while I accepted his grave disappointment in me and vowed never to wash another thing of his, ever.
The truth is that my kids are great housekeepers, always have been. We had to pull together and make fast business of the housework if we wanted to have fun on the weekends, like go skiing. I was a single parent and worked several jobs. The kids got good at everything. By the time they were driving, they could get a rental truck and move us entirely. They painted the house one summer and Tom Sawyered a bunch of friends into helping. My son had a chain saw when he was 13 and cut our firewood. I am bragging now.
I had been determined about this. Before my oldest was 1, I met this lovely hippie lady with a bunch of kids. She went to Guatemala with the kids for the winters. When they were getting ready to take off one year, she told her kids (the youngest about 3 1/2) to get ready. They all scrambled and got their backpacks, took the clothes they wanted, got their tooth brushes and favorite toys and books and were ready to go before she was. My role model in that department. (Maybe something about Guatemala, too.) It was one of the goals I achieved. Not without a few mishaps like Alice forgetting her passport when going to the Bahamas with the Crowes when she was 11 or so and missing her flight while I drove the passport to the airport. She flew alone on the next flight. All well.
About my friend. Her nagging did not work, so she got a little more serious. When it was time for the kid's room to be vacuumed, she put all the stuff that was on the floor and disappeared it. She ignored the whines of the kids. Next, when her thick kids didn't change their bedding, she disappeared the bed. The kids were in agonies of righteous indignation. She said "There is a simple solution. do what I ask." Her kids learned their lesson. I thought she was cool, also.
So, in this department things worked out well for me. I had to take little beatings now and then, like when Alice chewed me out for having a messy car and said she cleaned it so she wouldn't be embarrassed when her friends rode with me. Good plan, Julie.
But I am running into young people today who really don't get it. We have Greeley's grandson living with us. His room smells bad. Like you can smell it from the hall. Our furnace is in his closet. The other day, with fair warning I knocked on his door around 9 AM to tell him and his girl friend that the furnace guys had arrived to do some work. He got really upset and wanted me to arrange for them to come back in the afternoon so they could sleep some more. I was so shocked I just stood there and finally said, "No, not happening. Get moving." I was shocked because, as you know, it takes a lot of effort, money and phone calls to get repairmen to the house. I was shocked because the room was a pig pen. I was shocked because they don't work, they don't pay rent, they never lift a finger and they were offended at something being asked of them.
I have heard the word "entitled" over and over for various groups of people. I now get it. In the case of these unconscious twenty somethings it seems to mean "Rights Without Responsibilities." Lief has the right to his privacy (no one can come into his space) but takes no responsibility for taking care of it. He has a right to his preferred lifestyle and that incurs no responsibilities. If he were sick or mentally challenged or there was some extenuating circumstance, I would be full of sympathy. He is not. I am not.
I am ready to "clean" his room. I am ready to remove everything on the floor and disappear it. I am ready to take away the sheets and blankets if they are not washed. I am not a mean person, but I am having mean thoughts. First I have to get my head on right and then I will figure out whether I can teach responsibility responsibly.
I would have gone a lot further if it were me. My kids didn't grow up with cleaning help, nor did I do their laundry. Well, that started when my son was about 11 and I dyed all his clothes a nice color of pink. I guess it wasn't all that OK to go to gym class in pink boxers. I just stuck his laundry back in his room hoping he wouldn't notice. He came storming into my bedroom (not allowed) and put his hands on his hips and declared, "I am NEVER going to let you do my laundry again. NEVER. Do you understand me?" I had to bite my cheeks to keep from laughing while I accepted his grave disappointment in me and vowed never to wash another thing of his, ever.
The truth is that my kids are great housekeepers, always have been. We had to pull together and make fast business of the housework if we wanted to have fun on the weekends, like go skiing. I was a single parent and worked several jobs. The kids got good at everything. By the time they were driving, they could get a rental truck and move us entirely. They painted the house one summer and Tom Sawyered a bunch of friends into helping. My son had a chain saw when he was 13 and cut our firewood. I am bragging now.
I had been determined about this. Before my oldest was 1, I met this lovely hippie lady with a bunch of kids. She went to Guatemala with the kids for the winters. When they were getting ready to take off one year, she told her kids (the youngest about 3 1/2) to get ready. They all scrambled and got their backpacks, took the clothes they wanted, got their tooth brushes and favorite toys and books and were ready to go before she was. My role model in that department. (Maybe something about Guatemala, too.) It was one of the goals I achieved. Not without a few mishaps like Alice forgetting her passport when going to the Bahamas with the Crowes when she was 11 or so and missing her flight while I drove the passport to the airport. She flew alone on the next flight. All well.
About my friend. Her nagging did not work, so she got a little more serious. When it was time for the kid's room to be vacuumed, she put all the stuff that was on the floor and disappeared it. She ignored the whines of the kids. Next, when her thick kids didn't change their bedding, she disappeared the bed. The kids were in agonies of righteous indignation. She said "There is a simple solution. do what I ask." Her kids learned their lesson. I thought she was cool, also.
So, in this department things worked out well for me. I had to take little beatings now and then, like when Alice chewed me out for having a messy car and said she cleaned it so she wouldn't be embarrassed when her friends rode with me. Good plan, Julie.
But I am running into young people today who really don't get it. We have Greeley's grandson living with us. His room smells bad. Like you can smell it from the hall. Our furnace is in his closet. The other day, with fair warning I knocked on his door around 9 AM to tell him and his girl friend that the furnace guys had arrived to do some work. He got really upset and wanted me to arrange for them to come back in the afternoon so they could sleep some more. I was so shocked I just stood there and finally said, "No, not happening. Get moving." I was shocked because, as you know, it takes a lot of effort, money and phone calls to get repairmen to the house. I was shocked because the room was a pig pen. I was shocked because they don't work, they don't pay rent, they never lift a finger and they were offended at something being asked of them.
I have heard the word "entitled" over and over for various groups of people. I now get it. In the case of these unconscious twenty somethings it seems to mean "Rights Without Responsibilities." Lief has the right to his privacy (no one can come into his space) but takes no responsibility for taking care of it. He has a right to his preferred lifestyle and that incurs no responsibilities. If he were sick or mentally challenged or there was some extenuating circumstance, I would be full of sympathy. He is not. I am not.
I am ready to "clean" his room. I am ready to remove everything on the floor and disappear it. I am ready to take away the sheets and blankets if they are not washed. I am not a mean person, but I am having mean thoughts. First I have to get my head on right and then I will figure out whether I can teach responsibility responsibly.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
A Terrible Thing I Could Imagine Happening
A second civil war in the USA. So, this President Obama who gave the most Lincolnesque speech I have ever heard, "On Race and Religion", now needs to give the present situation a "House Divided Against Itself Can Not Stand" speech. I think our country is on the brink of falling apart. I know that I personally do not share the same values spiritually, economically, socially, and so on, as many in this country.
I know I feel a vast kind of defeat from fighting battles which I thought we long ago won. (abortion rights, free press, civil rights) I am deflated and confounded by what is going on; injustice, oppression, abuse (women, planet, resources, ) do piss me off. That being said, I do not believe violence will solve any of these situations. Violence is the enemy of peace and justice.
However, there are lots of American citizens right this minute who are cosmically pissed off about their rights to kill and their rights to have no environmental or health regulations and their rights to exclude minorities from their civil rights. Most of these people are pretty much worked up into a frenzy of ignorant righteousness by Ted Cruz, Fox news and hateful radio invectives both religious (?) and political.
I think we are sitting on a powder keg right now and it wouldn't take much to ignite an absolutely crazy splitting apart of this country. An extremely violent break up would happen. It is my fear that this could happen the way it happened with that one shot in Sarajevo or the attack on Fort Sumter.
I fear that what Obama must face now is either the dissolution of the United States or he must rise up and unite his people. No sign of that so far, but if he could do it, we could get on with our rightful task of conquering the planet and making money. All kidding aside, I know that what this country needs is to re-vision itself uniting under a common purpose.
I don't know how this can happen. Right now our common enemy seems to dwell within our polarization. This is dangerous for us and for the whole world. I think Obama could take the opportunity of the shutdown and invite every American to think about why we are a country at all and how we can pull together. We need some spiritual leadership, some spiritual perspective. We don't need blame and victimized leadership.
I pray for all the suffering beings on this planet. I pray that we can transform the bad karma we are creating and that no one makes a disastrous move before we wake up.
Refresh your recollection of the last civil war in this country. This simplified version of the events might trigger your knowledge.
Causes of the American Civil War
I know I feel a vast kind of defeat from fighting battles which I thought we long ago won. (abortion rights, free press, civil rights) I am deflated and confounded by what is going on; injustice, oppression, abuse (women, planet, resources, ) do piss me off. That being said, I do not believe violence will solve any of these situations. Violence is the enemy of peace and justice.
However, there are lots of American citizens right this minute who are cosmically pissed off about their rights to kill and their rights to have no environmental or health regulations and their rights to exclude minorities from their civil rights. Most of these people are pretty much worked up into a frenzy of ignorant righteousness by Ted Cruz, Fox news and hateful radio invectives both religious (?) and political.
I think we are sitting on a powder keg right now and it wouldn't take much to ignite an absolutely crazy splitting apart of this country. An extremely violent break up would happen. It is my fear that this could happen the way it happened with that one shot in Sarajevo or the attack on Fort Sumter.
I fear that what Obama must face now is either the dissolution of the United States or he must rise up and unite his people. No sign of that so far, but if he could do it, we could get on with our rightful task of conquering the planet and making money. All kidding aside, I know that what this country needs is to re-vision itself uniting under a common purpose.
I don't know how this can happen. Right now our common enemy seems to dwell within our polarization. This is dangerous for us and for the whole world. I think Obama could take the opportunity of the shutdown and invite every American to think about why we are a country at all and how we can pull together. We need some spiritual leadership, some spiritual perspective. We don't need blame and victimized leadership.
I pray for all the suffering beings on this planet. I pray that we can transform the bad karma we are creating and that no one makes a disastrous move before we wake up.
Refresh your recollection of the last civil war in this country. This simplified version of the events might trigger your knowledge.
Causes of the American Civil War
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A common assumption to explain the cause of the American Civil War
was that the North was no longer willing to tolerate slavery as being
part of the fabric of US society and that the political power brokers in
Washington were planning to abolish slavery throughout the Union.
Therefore for many people slavery is the key issue to explain the causes
of the American Civil War. However, it is not as simple as this and
slavery, while a major issue, was not the only issue that pushed
American into the ‘Great American Tragedy’. By April 1861,
slavery had become inextricably entwined with state rights, the power
of the federal government over the states, the South’s ‘way of life’
etc. – all of which made a major contribution to the causes of the
American Civil War.
By
1860 America could not be seen as being a homogenous society. Clearly
defined areas could be identified that had different outlooks and
different values. This was later to be seen in the North versus South
divide that created the two sides in the war.
The
South was an agricultural region where cotton and tobacco were the main
backbone to the region’s economic strength. The area relied on exports
to markets in Western Europe and the class structure that could be found
in the UK, for example, was mimicked in the southern states. The local
plantation owner was a ‘king’ within his own area and locals would be
deferential towards such men. The whole structure was portrayed in ‘Gone
With The Wind’; a strictly Christian society that had men at the top
while those underneath were expected and required to accept their social
status. Social advancement was possible but invariably it was done
within the senior families of a state, who were the economic, political
and legal brokers of their state on behalf of the people in that state.
Within this structure was the wealth that these families had accrued. It
cannot be denied that a huge part of this wealth came from the fact
that the plantation owners oriented the work on their plantations around
slave labour. As abhorrent as it may be to those in the C21st, slavery
was simply seen as part of the southern way of life. Without slavery,
the economic clout of these premier families would have been seriously
dented and those they employed and paid – local people who would have
recognised how important the local plantation owner was to their own
well-being – simply accepted this as ‘how it is’. When the dark clouds
of war gathered in 1860-61, many in the South saw their very way of life
being threatened. Part of that was slavery but it was not the only
part.
The
North was almost in complete contrast to the South. In the lead up to
April 1861, the North was industrialising at a very fast rate.
Entrepreneurs were accepted and, in fact, were seen as being vital to
the further industrial development of America. You did not have to stay
in your social place and social mobility was common. For example, Samuel
Colt was born in Connecticut into a relatively poor background. He had
an inauspicious start to his life but ended up a very rich man who left
his wife $15 million in his will. Whether he could have done this in the
South is a moot topic. It was always possible but most of America’s
premier entrepreneurs based themselves in the North where the
straitjacket of social class was weaker. Cornelius Vanderbilt is another
example. Whether a man who came from the Netherlands could have forced
his way into the social hierarchy of the South is again a question open
to debate. The North was also a cosmopolitan mixture of nationalities
and religions – far more so than the South. There can be little doubt
that there were important groups in the North that were anti-slavery and
wanted its abolition throughout the Union. However, there were also
groups that were ambivalent and those who knew that the North’s economic
development was based not only on entrepreneurial skills but also on
the input of poorly paid workers who were not slaves but lived lives not
totally removed from those in the South. While they had their freedom
and were paid, their lifestyle was at best very harsh.
While
the two sides that made up the American Civil War were apart in many
areas, it became worse when the perception in the South was that the
North would try to impose its values on the South.
In
1832, South Carolina passed an act that declared that Federal tariff
legislation of 1828 and 1832 could not be enforced onto states and that
after February 1st 1833 the tariffs would not be recognised
in the state. This brought South Carolina into direct conflict with the
Federal government in Washington DC. Congress pushed through the Force
Bill that enabled the President to use military force to bring any state
into line with regards to implementing Federal law. On this occasion
the threat of military force worked. People in South Carolina vowed,
however, it would be the last time.
It
was now that slavery became mixed up with state rights – just how much
power a state had compared to federal authority. State rights became
intermingled with slavery. The key issue was whether slavery would be
allowed in the newly created states that were joining the Union. This
dispute further developed with the ‘Louisiana Purchase’ of 1803 whereby
Kansas, among others, was purchased by the federal government. Kansas
was officially opened to settlement in 1854 and there was a rush to
settle in the state between those who supported slavery and those who
opposed it. The state became a place of violence between the two groups
and Kansas got the nickname ‘Bleeding Kansas’ in recognition of what was
going on there. However on January 29th 1861, Kansas was
admitted to the Union as a slave-free state. Many in the traditional
slave states saw this as the first step towards abolishing slavery
throughout the Union and thus the destruction of the southern way of
life.
When South Carolina seceded from the Union on December 20th
1860, the first state to do so, it was a sign that the state no longer
felt part of the United States of America and that America as an entity
was being dominated by a federal government ensconced in the views of
the North. Whether this was true or not, is not relevant as it was felt
to be true by many South Carolinians. The secession of South Carolina
pushed other southern states into doing the same. With such a background
of distrust between most southern states and the government in
Washington, it only needed one incident to set off a civil war and that
occurred at Fort Sumter in April 1861.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
The Man I Met Was John Gardner
We arrived in New York from Puerto Rico. I was very happy to be leaving for a European adventure. We had saved up a few dollars so we felt free. We had a kind of plan for the autumn. We looked gorgeous. No modesty there. When I look at the few old pictures that have survived the ages, I am in awe of our beauty. We felt great. We were free. That is the word that comes to mind . We were as free as birds.
I was wearing a short skirt and big tall platform shoes. I mean short. I mean that the whole skirt was about 8 inches. My hair was bleached by the sun and down to my waist. P. was wearing bell bottom pants, long hair also and some silk cravat. Looking back, at least he wasn't wearing a sari as he sometimes did.
The Long Island we went to was not the Long Island of "The Great Gatsby" (that would be later), it was the Long Island of nice suburban houses in nice rows with nice yards and two car garages. It was the Long Island of commuter rails carrying thousands of workers into the City daily. It was very tidy. The Waldorf Institute, The Garden City Waldorf School, the home of the Gardner's were all nice and neat and tidy. It was a bit of a shock, like re-entering the world of "Leave it to Beaver" after living through the 60s.
John met us at the school. We were carrying our backpacks. He showed us around this place where everyone was modestly dressed in expensive clothes with nice neat haircuts and practical shoes. Then he took us to his house to spend the night and meet his wife, Carol.
Carol greeted us warmly, took us to separate bedrooms with twin beds and showed Patrick around while I went in the living room for tea with John. I could tell that we were both judging each other and both coming up with critical opinions. So, I did what I do when I am uncomfortable. I challenged him. (in his own house while he was offering us his hospitality!) I was young, remember. I said something about how I bet he was happy that we hadn't been able to shut down the war in Vietnam. He said something about how I must be insecure to have to wear such revealing clothes. He said something about how disruptive the war protesters were when he was running a school. I said something about how some people were living in a dream world if they thought we should just let those in Washington be in charge.
He allowed as how I was pretty angry and I was using my anger to prop up my lower ego. I said" You are talking to me about EGO! Who are you to talk about big egos?"
Then Patrick came in and Carol invited us into a nice dinner. (meat loaf, potatoes, salad, garden veggies, ice cream. Why do I remember this stuff?) and we chatted and all got along famously. John had invited Lee Lecraw to meet us. By the time we left the next morning, we were going to the Institute in the fall, Mr. Lecraw had offered to pay the fees, we had a plan to rent a house at the beach with Jennifer Greene. Signed sealed and delivered.
I loved Carol Gardner. At some point in the 24 hours, I got an amazing feeling about John Gardner. It was not comfortable, but it was strong. I had met the man who's mind would challenge me like never before. I had met someone important. It was not necessary that I agree with him on anything but it was necessary that I think in a deeper way to meet his questions and that I look beyond my hippie rebellion against the bourgeois lifestyle and see this man. He was my teacher.
Our friendship unfurled at a slow uneven pace. I grew up a lot. John had some intense heart opening experiences. He became one of the most important people in my life. We became great friends. Long after his death I still turn to him when I want a longer view of things, when I want a challenging opinion. A lot of people I met through him quote him or offer what they think he thought about something. I could never do that because I could never predict his thoughts or anticipate his words. He had an original mind. I did, however constantly have the experience that my intuition was sharpened, magnified in his presence. That can still happen when I conjure him up in my heart. Some good teacher.
I was wearing a short skirt and big tall platform shoes. I mean short. I mean that the whole skirt was about 8 inches. My hair was bleached by the sun and down to my waist. P. was wearing bell bottom pants, long hair also and some silk cravat. Looking back, at least he wasn't wearing a sari as he sometimes did.
The Long Island we went to was not the Long Island of "The Great Gatsby" (that would be later), it was the Long Island of nice suburban houses in nice rows with nice yards and two car garages. It was the Long Island of commuter rails carrying thousands of workers into the City daily. It was very tidy. The Waldorf Institute, The Garden City Waldorf School, the home of the Gardner's were all nice and neat and tidy. It was a bit of a shock, like re-entering the world of "Leave it to Beaver" after living through the 60s.
John met us at the school. We were carrying our backpacks. He showed us around this place where everyone was modestly dressed in expensive clothes with nice neat haircuts and practical shoes. Then he took us to his house to spend the night and meet his wife, Carol.
Carol greeted us warmly, took us to separate bedrooms with twin beds and showed Patrick around while I went in the living room for tea with John. I could tell that we were both judging each other and both coming up with critical opinions. So, I did what I do when I am uncomfortable. I challenged him. (in his own house while he was offering us his hospitality!) I was young, remember. I said something about how I bet he was happy that we hadn't been able to shut down the war in Vietnam. He said something about how I must be insecure to have to wear such revealing clothes. He said something about how disruptive the war protesters were when he was running a school. I said something about how some people were living in a dream world if they thought we should just let those in Washington be in charge.
He allowed as how I was pretty angry and I was using my anger to prop up my lower ego. I said" You are talking to me about EGO! Who are you to talk about big egos?"
Then Patrick came in and Carol invited us into a nice dinner. (meat loaf, potatoes, salad, garden veggies, ice cream. Why do I remember this stuff?) and we chatted and all got along famously. John had invited Lee Lecraw to meet us. By the time we left the next morning, we were going to the Institute in the fall, Mr. Lecraw had offered to pay the fees, we had a plan to rent a house at the beach with Jennifer Greene. Signed sealed and delivered.
I loved Carol Gardner. At some point in the 24 hours, I got an amazing feeling about John Gardner. It was not comfortable, but it was strong. I had met the man who's mind would challenge me like never before. I had met someone important. It was not necessary that I agree with him on anything but it was necessary that I think in a deeper way to meet his questions and that I look beyond my hippie rebellion against the bourgeois lifestyle and see this man. He was my teacher.
Our friendship unfurled at a slow uneven pace. I grew up a lot. John had some intense heart opening experiences. He became one of the most important people in my life. We became great friends. Long after his death I still turn to him when I want a longer view of things, when I want a challenging opinion. A lot of people I met through him quote him or offer what they think he thought about something. I could never do that because I could never predict his thoughts or anticipate his words. He had an original mind. I did, however constantly have the experience that my intuition was sharpened, magnified in his presence. That can still happen when I conjure him up in my heart. Some good teacher.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
That book, "The Sensitive Chaos", sent us in a new direction.
There are a lot of twists and turns in life. Sometimes it is hard to pin point them. Most often we don't know them while they are happening. This book and where it lead us turned out to be one of them.
I was involved a bit in the political scene in Puerto Rico. We lived in a lovely little casita in the suburb of San Juan, called Rio Piedras. The University was very near our house. I took Spanish lessons there for a bit, but couldn't help getting pulled into the politics. Riots were happening at the U. with increasing frequency. Riots for independence from USA. There it is again: the Vietnam War. Puerto Rico is a colony of the USA. Puerto Ricans had (have) to pay taxes and were being drafted to the killing fields of Vietnam in terribly upsetting numbers. They had to go to Vietnam. They had no vote, as if that would have changed much at the time. They were royally pissed off.
We would go over to see what was happening when we would hear helicopters and gun shots. I would sometimes send dispatches to Liberation News Service, the news source for many of the underground newspapers in the States. Many classes were cancelled because of the politics. (Same thing had been happening at home.) It was a hard year in the US for any person of conscience. The Democratic Convention in Chicago, the murder of Dr. King, the murder of Bobby Kennedy, the murder of thousands of American kids and millions of Vietnamese people. It was bad.
We worked. We partied. We ate lovely food. We visited the frozen food section of the supermarket on our way home from work many days to cool off for a few minutes. Neither work nor home had air. We had lots of guests. Patrick wrote to the woman who had given Bobbin the book, Jennifer Greene.
She wrote that she was going to study Anthroposophy (the work of Rudolf Steiner) the following year in a Masters program at Adelphi University on Long Island. Patrick became more and more interested. Many early hippies had become political activists. Many political activists were stating to turn to spiritual disciplines. I was not so interested, but I was, kind of. What I remember is that Patrick was galvanized by this book. He had to know more. He ate it up. He spent real time with it. My wobbly memory of my own reaction was that I thought it was cool, but that Bobbin and Patrick were much more scientific than I was.
I don't mean to say that I was not interested in spiritual stuff. I was a very good Catholic until I wasn't. At boarding school I was required to go to church every Sunday. We went to every denomination in Boston in the course of 3 years. Bobbin and I had loved studying World Religions in college, reading every original story we could; The Ramayana, the Bhagavad Gita, St Thomas Aquinas, Thomas Merton, Plato..that kind of stuff.
I had never read much of the Theosophists and none of Anthroposophy. Patrick decided he want to join Jennifer Greene and study with John Gardner the following year. It seemed like it could possibly be interesting.
As we wrapped up the school year in Puerto Rico, after losing P. overboard on a wild sail to Vieques with our psychiatrist friend, we made tickets to go to Long Island for an interview with John Gardner on our way to Europe to hike in the Alps for the summer. We needed to do something really healthy, feel bright crisp air, shake off the rum and the laziness which had become our habit in PR. It was a plan. We bought our tiny yellow tent, put everything we owned out on the curb for people to find and take home, and flew to New York for a twenty-four hour stay with John and Carol Gardner whom we had never met.
I was pretty certain that I could find courses I wanted to take n or around New York. I had no idea that I was about to meet the most important man in my life and I had no idea that we would start out like fire and water.
I was involved a bit in the political scene in Puerto Rico. We lived in a lovely little casita in the suburb of San Juan, called Rio Piedras. The University was very near our house. I took Spanish lessons there for a bit, but couldn't help getting pulled into the politics. Riots were happening at the U. with increasing frequency. Riots for independence from USA. There it is again: the Vietnam War. Puerto Rico is a colony of the USA. Puerto Ricans had (have) to pay taxes and were being drafted to the killing fields of Vietnam in terribly upsetting numbers. They had to go to Vietnam. They had no vote, as if that would have changed much at the time. They were royally pissed off.
We would go over to see what was happening when we would hear helicopters and gun shots. I would sometimes send dispatches to Liberation News Service, the news source for many of the underground newspapers in the States. Many classes were cancelled because of the politics. (Same thing had been happening at home.) It was a hard year in the US for any person of conscience. The Democratic Convention in Chicago, the murder of Dr. King, the murder of Bobby Kennedy, the murder of thousands of American kids and millions of Vietnamese people. It was bad.
We worked. We partied. We ate lovely food. We visited the frozen food section of the supermarket on our way home from work many days to cool off for a few minutes. Neither work nor home had air. We had lots of guests. Patrick wrote to the woman who had given Bobbin the book, Jennifer Greene.
She wrote that she was going to study Anthroposophy (the work of Rudolf Steiner) the following year in a Masters program at Adelphi University on Long Island. Patrick became more and more interested. Many early hippies had become political activists. Many political activists were stating to turn to spiritual disciplines. I was not so interested, but I was, kind of. What I remember is that Patrick was galvanized by this book. He had to know more. He ate it up. He spent real time with it. My wobbly memory of my own reaction was that I thought it was cool, but that Bobbin and Patrick were much more scientific than I was.
I don't mean to say that I was not interested in spiritual stuff. I was a very good Catholic until I wasn't. At boarding school I was required to go to church every Sunday. We went to every denomination in Boston in the course of 3 years. Bobbin and I had loved studying World Religions in college, reading every original story we could; The Ramayana, the Bhagavad Gita, St Thomas Aquinas, Thomas Merton, Plato..that kind of stuff.
I had never read much of the Theosophists and none of Anthroposophy. Patrick decided he want to join Jennifer Greene and study with John Gardner the following year. It seemed like it could possibly be interesting.
As we wrapped up the school year in Puerto Rico, after losing P. overboard on a wild sail to Vieques with our psychiatrist friend, we made tickets to go to Long Island for an interview with John Gardner on our way to Europe to hike in the Alps for the summer. We needed to do something really healthy, feel bright crisp air, shake off the rum and the laziness which had become our habit in PR. It was a plan. We bought our tiny yellow tent, put everything we owned out on the curb for people to find and take home, and flew to New York for a twenty-four hour stay with John and Carol Gardner whom we had never met.
I was pretty certain that I could find courses I wanted to take n or around New York. I had no idea that I was about to meet the most important man in my life and I had no idea that we would start out like fire and water.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
My first encounter with the man who would become my best friend.
Patrick and I had been living in Puerto Rico. The year was 1967-1968. It was a sort of accident that we were there at all, if we chose to believe in accidents. We were married, penniless, hippies, Had had an extended honeymoon of months of wandering around the USA doing fun hippie things. Everyone got married in those days. You couldn't sleep together or get a hotel room together or rent a house if you weren't married. An then there was the Vietnam War...another reason people got married in those days.
I had decided that I wanted to go back to school to study political stuff. I chose the University of Wisconsin because it was one of the hotbeds of political activity and there was someone there I wanted to study under. I can no longer remember who it was. We were bumming around Connecticut where Patrick had gone to college and where my folks lived. I wasn't hearing from Wisconsin. I had no question that I would be accepted so we had made our plans accordingly. (Who was that young woman?)
Sometime in the summer, I finally got nervous and called the school. No, I wasn't accepted because they had never gotten a complete application. A bit of research showed that I sent all my forms in under my married name, but all my transcripts had been sent under my maiden name. Oops. I wasn't used to being married, obviously.
They offered that I could come in January. I couldn't see moving to fucking Wisconsin in January. You had to be crazy to do something like that.
We were having dinner at my parents house when one of the guests, a lovely Puerto Rican woman who worked with Mom in social work in Hartford, a city bursting at that time with Puerto Rican immigrants, upon hearing we had no plan for fall, suggested that we go to Puerto Rico and teach school for the year. It sounded heavenly to us. We were there within a few weeks.
We both got jobs in a private school. I taught English and French and Patrick taught English and Puerrto Rican History. The school was a trip and a half. Our social life was mostly drinking and beaching. It really came under the heading of 'partying.' Lots of dancing and pig roasts, the usual kind of thing.
One day Patric got a book in the mail from our friend Bobbin. I think it was a wedding present she had gotten from Jennifer Greene who lived across the hall from her at Sarah Lawrence College. The book was about water.
"Theodor Schwenk (1910, Schwäbisch Gmünd - 1986) was an anthroposophist, an engineer and a pioneering water researcher. He founded the Institute for Flow. Science. Link: http://www.stroemungsinstitut.de/prospect.htm His book Sensitive Chaos has been cited by Ralph Abraham, the California mathematician and Chaos theorist, as an influence on his thinking. Schwenk talks about the need for "water consciousness", maintaining that the movement of water, by its very essence, signifies change. Cosmic consciousness is symbolized by water, where all particles merge into a single, transcendental entity. Man, according to Schwenk, will come closer to the secret of life by studying the cyclicality of movement opened from above. Schwenk further notes myths and tales pertaining to the treasure hidden under water, introducing the quandary-assumption that the treasure is, in fact, the water itself! "
This book changed our lives.
Mas manana.
I had decided that I wanted to go back to school to study political stuff. I chose the University of Wisconsin because it was one of the hotbeds of political activity and there was someone there I wanted to study under. I can no longer remember who it was. We were bumming around Connecticut where Patrick had gone to college and where my folks lived. I wasn't hearing from Wisconsin. I had no question that I would be accepted so we had made our plans accordingly. (Who was that young woman?)
Sometime in the summer, I finally got nervous and called the school. No, I wasn't accepted because they had never gotten a complete application. A bit of research showed that I sent all my forms in under my married name, but all my transcripts had been sent under my maiden name. Oops. I wasn't used to being married, obviously.
They offered that I could come in January. I couldn't see moving to fucking Wisconsin in January. You had to be crazy to do something like that.
We were having dinner at my parents house when one of the guests, a lovely Puerto Rican woman who worked with Mom in social work in Hartford, a city bursting at that time with Puerto Rican immigrants, upon hearing we had no plan for fall, suggested that we go to Puerto Rico and teach school for the year. It sounded heavenly to us. We were there within a few weeks.
We both got jobs in a private school. I taught English and French and Patrick taught English and Puerrto Rican History. The school was a trip and a half. Our social life was mostly drinking and beaching. It really came under the heading of 'partying.' Lots of dancing and pig roasts, the usual kind of thing.
One day Patric got a book in the mail from our friend Bobbin. I think it was a wedding present she had gotten from Jennifer Greene who lived across the hall from her at Sarah Lawrence College. The book was about water.
"Theodor Schwenk (1910, Schwäbisch Gmünd - 1986) was an anthroposophist, an engineer and a pioneering water researcher. He founded the Institute for Flow. Science. Link: http://www.stroemungsinstitut.de/prospect.htm His book Sensitive Chaos has been cited by Ralph Abraham, the California mathematician and Chaos theorist, as an influence on his thinking. Schwenk talks about the need for "water consciousness", maintaining that the movement of water, by its very essence, signifies change. Cosmic consciousness is symbolized by water, where all particles merge into a single, transcendental entity. Man, according to Schwenk, will come closer to the secret of life by studying the cyclicality of movement opened from above. Schwenk further notes myths and tales pertaining to the treasure hidden under water, introducing the quandary-assumption that the treasure is, in fact, the water itself! "
This book changed our lives.
Mas manana.
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
A Homeless Woman Breaks My Heart
In his wonderful Post Jungian writings, James Hillman talks about a patient who is depressed after she runs into a begging homeless person on the street. Firstly, she experienced the dilemma about whether to give money to the man. What if it was a drug addict or alcoholic and he just wanted money to make himself sicker? That's fucked up. And she knew that she couldn't give him enough money to really help him. That felt fucked up. By the time the woman had had all these thoughts, she had walked past the homeless man and was fully in her head. She later went to a therapist and talked about her feelings.
In her therapists office, they spoke about her parents and her grandparents and her childhood. She still felt lousy. When she got to Hillman, he suggested that she might get out of her head and do something about homelessness. She did and she felt better. Hum. Was that a brilliant shrink or some age old wisdom that most people know? Helping someone else is one of the finest steps toward curing depression.
With all the depressed people in our country, you'd think we would have the most helping society ever. With all the Christians in our culture, would think we would all be tripping over ourselves helping the least fortunate. Instead, we are extremely busy making trouble all over the world. (Listen to Jeremy Scahill on how the US laid the foundation this summer for the Kenya massacre. Makes your blood run cold.) I think we need to work on the weird idea once floated in Philadelphia about "Brotherly Love." I expect that we could return to our much earlier ideal of what the USA was set up to do best, and it would be good medicine for all of us.
So, about my preaching. The other evening, I was sitting on my veranda . It was cold and rainy, but the sunset was breaking through the clouds. I was trying to decide what to have for dinner. I had many choices. My friend Greeley was inside the house talking on the phone. A very wet, very bedraggled woman called to me from the sidewalk asking if I had a phone she might use to call her mother. I said, "Sure." She was very frail, shaved head, missing some front teeth, dressed in a filthy hoodie, new flip flops, maybe 40, looking 60. She was chatting as she came to sit next to me.
I handed her my phone. She started saying her mother was in Mexico but the number was San Diego and talking about how she had always had problems with her mom but now things were great. Her mother answered and they had a very unsatisfying conversation from my viewpoint. Neither knew where they were, as they made plans to see each other soon. She hung up and seemed happy.
She said she had had a free dinner and in her plastic bag she had a new sleeping bag, but no tent. I offered to help her find a shelter for the night. She went into some long story about how she can't stay in places because .....I gave her a pair of sox, a bottle of lemonade, I offered her a hat. She didn't like it. Greeley came out and found a hat she liked. She never stopped talking. She was very sweet, but the talking didn't make sense. She started to leave. The rain started to pour down. Greeley gave her some money. I felt like shit.
Even if I could have found her a place to sleep, she had clearly had bad experiences and got frightened when I made the suggestion. Friends say she sounded like a meth person with all that jabbering. I have no way of knowing, but her sweetness doesn't exactly jive with my impression of meth users. Whatever it was, she was a deeply troubled, very lost, cold, human being.
I'm glad I met her. I have met her in people who have food and comforts and nice places to live. Whether her suffering comes from addictions or mental illness or both, she is a deeply suffering human. We have a big problem here in Oregon with homeless folks. But I think the bigger problem is with mental health and addictions. And my problem is that it makes me sad and putting bandages on a broken artery doesn't seem to help. That being said, I will continue with my little acts of kindness. I figure now that every cup of coffee I have at my local coffee shop cost me about $8 because I always have to give to the people begging outside. I am not going to stop thinking a little money and a kind word won't sometimes help a person. I read about miracles all the time. They often can be initiated by the smallest thing.
In her therapists office, they spoke about her parents and her grandparents and her childhood. She still felt lousy. When she got to Hillman, he suggested that she might get out of her head and do something about homelessness. She did and she felt better. Hum. Was that a brilliant shrink or some age old wisdom that most people know? Helping someone else is one of the finest steps toward curing depression.
With all the depressed people in our country, you'd think we would have the most helping society ever. With all the Christians in our culture, would think we would all be tripping over ourselves helping the least fortunate. Instead, we are extremely busy making trouble all over the world. (Listen to Jeremy Scahill on how the US laid the foundation this summer for the Kenya massacre. Makes your blood run cold.) I think we need to work on the weird idea once floated in Philadelphia about "Brotherly Love." I expect that we could return to our much earlier ideal of what the USA was set up to do best, and it would be good medicine for all of us.
So, about my preaching. The other evening, I was sitting on my veranda . It was cold and rainy, but the sunset was breaking through the clouds. I was trying to decide what to have for dinner. I had many choices. My friend Greeley was inside the house talking on the phone. A very wet, very bedraggled woman called to me from the sidewalk asking if I had a phone she might use to call her mother. I said, "Sure." She was very frail, shaved head, missing some front teeth, dressed in a filthy hoodie, new flip flops, maybe 40, looking 60. She was chatting as she came to sit next to me.
I handed her my phone. She started saying her mother was in Mexico but the number was San Diego and talking about how she had always had problems with her mom but now things were great. Her mother answered and they had a very unsatisfying conversation from my viewpoint. Neither knew where they were, as they made plans to see each other soon. She hung up and seemed happy.
She said she had had a free dinner and in her plastic bag she had a new sleeping bag, but no tent. I offered to help her find a shelter for the night. She went into some long story about how she can't stay in places because .....I gave her a pair of sox, a bottle of lemonade, I offered her a hat. She didn't like it. Greeley came out and found a hat she liked. She never stopped talking. She was very sweet, but the talking didn't make sense. She started to leave. The rain started to pour down. Greeley gave her some money. I felt like shit.
Even if I could have found her a place to sleep, she had clearly had bad experiences and got frightened when I made the suggestion. Friends say she sounded like a meth person with all that jabbering. I have no way of knowing, but her sweetness doesn't exactly jive with my impression of meth users. Whatever it was, she was a deeply troubled, very lost, cold, human being.
I'm glad I met her. I have met her in people who have food and comforts and nice places to live. Whether her suffering comes from addictions or mental illness or both, she is a deeply suffering human. We have a big problem here in Oregon with homeless folks. But I think the bigger problem is with mental health and addictions. And my problem is that it makes me sad and putting bandages on a broken artery doesn't seem to help. That being said, I will continue with my little acts of kindness. I figure now that every cup of coffee I have at my local coffee shop cost me about $8 because I always have to give to the people begging outside. I am not going to stop thinking a little money and a kind word won't sometimes help a person. I read about miracles all the time. They often can be initiated by the smallest thing.
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