BILLY JACK and the Indians

Tom Laughlin, the originator of the role, "Billy Jack", in the films of the same title, died last week, at age 82. He was one of the first true heroes of my young adult life: someone to not only look up to for their "ideas" and "ideals", but also someone to draw strength from, every time I viewed his films. This may be a weird American way of looking at life--through cinema, rather than spiritual teachings--or it may be a contemporary human endeavor. (The more I analyze this, the more I realize that the act of visualization IS spiritually based-- what better way to help one visualize than to watch a large screen?) For whatever reasons, I have taken comfort and gained strength through the films "Billy Jack" and "Trial of Billy Jack"--both first seen in the early '70s.

Briefly, Laughlin plays a Vietnam Special Ops Vet who comes home emotionally wounded from the war. He is through with violence of his own making. Of course, his karma forces him into mainly violent situations--most of which he emerges from wiser and bloodier than his opponents.

A master of the martial arts ("Lapkido") and a student of world philosophies, "Billy Jack" isn't just your everyday action-figure gone rogue. What made him fill my imagination was that he never picked a fight--he was drawn into them. Taking up fists for the oppressed, "Billy Jack" fought racism, sexism (in his way), ageism, and genocide. However, after every battle, his guilt about violence roared, wracking him with self-doubt and self-examination.

Born a "half-breed", "Billy Jack" moved back to the Dineh Nation's rez, seeking the teachings of the oldest shamans. His isolation in the backcountry didn't preclude his continuing protection of an alternative school for "any child needing a place to learn in peace". Under "Billy Jack's" eyes (as well as the Indian Tribe's care), his significant other, "Jean", (played sensitively by his real-life wife, Teresa Laughlin) runs the school with a global mindset and emerging 70's idealism.

The film follows many streams: Laughlin's own concern for Native American culture, spirituality and political rights; cutting edge educational models and the rights of children; examination of Self; responsibility for one's choices; Pacifism as an actual model for life; among others. In an Indie film made far from commercial studios, "Billy Jack" pulled together these disparate themes and made two films that still intrigue, today.

An eclectic sound-track, featuring Native cultural songs, rock-n-roll independent artists, and original music by his family, further raises these films to higher standards than what one might expect. I know that as I fought for A.I.M.'s goals in the seventies--myself a kind of "rebel student", -- I understood the fictional frustrations of "Billy Jack" on a visceral level. Like him, I, too, felt myself caught between cultures--my own search for true Spiritual Awakening often just out of reach. (A key scene in the first film has "Billy" wiping his face, confessing to "Jean" that he so desires to be a man of peace, but since his birth, he has been raging...Of course she tells him that's bull-shit! It's no easy path, being a Pacifist, and he better drop that false image, immediately...)

Beyond the personal issues I found mirrored, however cinematically, in the films, a little research also uncovered my political "take" on the movies. First Nation citizens, (American Indians), loved the fact that an action hero with conflicting, deeply-interesting back-story and intricate mind-set would be portrayed as a Native person. "Billy Jack" was so much more than the grunting, loin-cloth and feathered Indian of Hollywood. (He was also not the white-washed, romanticized "Good Indian"). Laughlin caught, for a few moments, a complex, modern human being, struggling (though filmatically) with a changing national culture--a character who just happened to be half-Indian.

Because Laughlin's own life had become emeshed with Native politics during his college years in South Dakota, he was sincere in his attempt to explore these issues via film. This sincerity included using actual Indian actors as Indians--including not trying to pass himself off as a full-blood. Years after the films were history, Laughlin continued his professional work with the same honor and sincerity.

(I was particularly struck when I found out that he had gained special permission to actually portray parts of spiritual vision questing he underwent during the films. There was, at no time, any rip offs of Native practices nor philosophies. Elders, as well as shamans, were present throughout the filming. Nor were any animals exploited--another issue made public before it was the film industries regular practice. Laughlin was the real deal. As close to an actual "Billy Jack" as there could be...perhaps that is why the films didn't drop into the black hole of absolute ridicule...)

"...a character that strongly resonated with a good deal of Native movie-going public..." was how critics at the Indian Country Today Media Network wrote about "Billy Jack" last week.  Reporters also noted that only two actors in America have ever been honored with Indian Country's highest recognition: Marlon Brando and Tom Laughlin.

His wife, Teresa Laughlin, suggested people could donate to the "Friends of Pine Ridge Reservation", in lieu of flowers--extending Laughlin's commitment to Native People past his earthly life.

Little did I know that the path I saw created in the films of "Billy Jack" would precede my own adventures West. They would include continued contact and work for Indian people in the U.S. They would also include twenty years at an alternative school where the belief that any child could come and learn what they wanted to learn was key. I introduced several generations to Tom Laughlin's films, while teaching there. The search for personal responsibility (and Englightenment), as well as the complexities of being a human being were explored deeply at The Farm School. While never confused with "Billy Jack", it was a known factor that I admired an artist whose work reflected wholly his life's concerns. I hope my students gained at least one cinematic "hero" along the journey.

Fly high, Billy. You are finally free.
Thank you.

FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW

There is a terrible, wonderful storm outside. It began with a creaking snow that held aching in its flakes. At first, sideways frozen dust. Then, a metamorphosis into noisy grit, pinging off my windows, clinging to my roof. (I woke to the cacophony, no longer shocked, simply knowing what I'd find.) I was not disappointed. Then, it just stopped.

The sudden quiet penetrates as surely as the cold.

All is still. Flash-frozen. Even the wind is silent.
The only lights come from the street. Golden amber. Muted. The perfect staging of shadowed outlines against the rolling white. A snow bomb has gone off. I am the lone survivor in its aftermath.
The plows and shovels have not yet arrived.
Huddled inside, neighbors push farther into sleep. Soon, house- lights will blink on. Coffee and bacon and oatmeal downed to fortify the storm-chores left in its wake. But not yet. Not yet.

The furnace clanks, shooting steam through veins of the house. A smell of wet heat, metal pipes, winter clothing permeates the darkness. My parents, the dog, all asleep. No huffing; no moans; no murmurs anywhere. Not even a ghost stirs in the silent spaces.

(My heart pumps with the ticking of my clock.
Almost as if I'm underwater, breathing forced oxygen, noting a kind of blue-light...)

This interior landscape of the house mirrors the interior landscape of my mind. Quiet between true night and first dawn--soon to erupt as someone inevitably cranks the house to movement. Whomever follows will rub against the first, the friction just enough to ignite a spark. Sudden warmth, or another explosion? Only the day will tell.
(This house has always held too much static electricity. Too many frustrated dreams.)

I watch my aging hands type in the glow of the screen. (Another field of white!) My words are footprints in electronic snow. The storm has pulled me in...pulled me back.
Always: this lesson.
Back.

(Whether for reparations, respite, reconnection or repair: back.)

Coming on Christmas.
Outside, there is a terrible, wonderful storm.
Like Joni Mitchell, I, too, wish I had a river.

To glide...
  
 

MANDELA and the SNOW: a private reverie

The world prepares its public mourning this week, having already begun its private reveries. Nelson Mandela has passed from this planet. Not so, his legacy. Not so, his memory. Even as I gaze at the falling snow outside my window this morning, Mandela is on my mind.

Why is it that so much of this world was blanketed by "white" cultures?  There are more people of color than there are their white cousins...White people, as far as our history books are concerned, weren't even "the first people"...Perhaps it is as the Indian people of the America's stated--we are the people who come to a place and cover it like lice...or snow...

As the white storm outside blankets this New England landscape, I think of our own genocide, in Massachusetts. First, the Vikings--fiercest white men of all, in their dragon-hulled ships--arriving as warriors and looters--exploring for pillage and conquer--exploring and terrifying any who stood in their path. Later, the other Europeans, come to take whatever was available in the "New World"--from beaver and otter pelts to gold. (Indians made lousy slaves. They would refuse to give in--starving or sitting down in their chains and simply setting their souls free. So, other "goods" were taken.) Whatever could be loaded onto ships and sent back...whatever made a buck...or a reputation.

(Next,the Pilgrims and religious hordes arrived--carrying with them indentured servants and communicable disease. Surely, these groups were most like "lice"--sucking the first people dry; killing them off  without even trying.)

However, after a while, they DID try. Soon, the wars began in earnest in this land of many cultures and colors; the white blanket suffocated the indigenous, often slaughtering the very friends who saved their immigrant lives. New England is a cornucopia of hurt and intolerance on so many levels...(Less obvious than its sister-South, we had a kind of Apartheid that Mandela would have raged against.)

I watch the snow. I shiver, remembering who I am behind my white skin and "privilege". What have I taken for granted? Where could I have facilitated change?

 I remember history lessons--far fewer--which spoke of the great white heroes and hopes. I think of Quakers and Abolitionists and colonists who fought on the side of the original people. I think of women behind the scenes, who taught and nurtured and looked after the children of all cultures around them--whose stories were never recorded--only passed down through generations. I think of far-sighted men who did, on some level, become enlightened, if only for public moments. Men who tried to give all human beings a fighting chance on equal ground--even if, in their private lives, they were less open-hearted.

There have been good, decent, and even great "white folks". Not all are a scourge upon the land. Not all seek to conquer "the Other", or make less, people unlike themselves.  Mandela would remind me of that--remind all of us of that. We have to start at the place of our own heart's center--at the place we find ourselves. We have to begin the enlightened action within our own heads, first, no matter who we are. I must hold on to that. I must embrace that first (perhaps greatest) lesson.

Embrace that which is best, inside ourselves. Seek what is best, in others. Fight to protect those without a voice of their own, and then fight to give them their voice. Heed that voice, once it begins to speak out. Reach out to your sisters and brothers and cousins and work to create something the world has yet to see. Embrace that which is different from yourself, even as Nature does, for in diversity, we find survival. Celebrate the brightest in all cultures. Share, unconditionally.

As the snow falls, it also melts. Even as it seeks to bury us, whitewashing the ugly, it carries a promise of living water in its frozen soul. It will cover, and smother and freeze, for a time, but it carries in its core the life-giving elements of other seasons. White is the reflection of all colors--and so, we must be part of The Whole.

We must confront who we are and fix what we find. We must also celebrate each season in its turning.  Solstice is coming. Mandela is passing. New challenges await us all. There is no time for guilt--only forgiveness and compassion. Let us remember the great man by forgiving ourselves.    

BUDDHA BACKPACKED

There are more than a few books on Buddhism written specifically for teens. In fact, many of my favorite writers have tackled the problem of bringing, not only the basics of Buddhism to the younger set, but also, the classics. However, there is rarely a copy of these texts in any classroom where I have been employed.

Imagine my surprise when, last week, as I was assigned to be in  class with Mr. Dandelion (an alias I hope won't offend...), I happened to spy, by the Teachers' Computer, a copy of BUDDHA IN YOUR BACKPACK...!  Mr. Dandelion is an able-bodied (and much harried) student- teacher, attempting to get his credential in different states, simultaneously. This means, beyond doing student-teacher hours in different counties, he also must travel New England winter roads for several hours each day. He is already stressed out by the time he arrives at school.

Today, his "official master teacher" was out, sick. (Our school district doesn't leave student teachers alone in the classroom to teach...ahem...) Today, I am to be his "official master teacher"--a silent ghost, observing--a "muscle", if it comes to that-- an emissary to the masses (as well as to the Office)--and general "Presence in the Classroom". This is an assignment I hate--though I like Mr. Dandelion very much.

Mr. Dandelion planned on showing a video about Muslims in America. He was more excited about the video than the students. My role was to simply stay at the Teacher's Desk while he worked the social studies classes. Mr. Dandelion is quite animated (and very young)--bobbing,weaving, making "adjustments" to students' behavior on the fly. His voice can go several octaves deeper (as well as higher) and several decibels louder than mine. Though every period is packed with kids, I knew that my job that day would be merely  moral support. Mr. Dandelion has this.

The video was well done. It followed contemporary Muslims, in the mid-West, as they went about their everyday American lives. It also challenged a white, thirty-something, American married man, to spend a month with a Muslim family, learning what he could learn, about their culture and religion. The first time I viewed it, I was impressed. However, the students were not.

Mr. Dandelion  had assumed that the students would enjoy a video, rather than a lecture. But these are Middle School, emotionally jacked-up, early adolescents. All they worry about or think about or care about is themselves--and the ratings of their peers. On-screen or not, even the Muslim kids in class were more interested in the fact that lights were off and Mr. Dandelion (and Ms. Minns) could only see so much ...

By the third screening, not only had I gotten what I could from the documentary, I was growing more and more alarmed at the lack of interest from our students. I was  alarmed that, when pointed out to them, in various ways, by Mr. Dandelion, it didn't seem to matter. Discussion both before and after the video ran something like this:

Mr. D.: What do you know about contemporary Muslim culture or religion?

Student: Nothing.

Mr. D.: What do you remember about all of our discussions and lessons, last week?

Student: Nothing, Man.

Class, in unison: This is so boring.

Student: This is boring...

Class: When's lunch?!

Student: Do we have to write about this? I shouldn't have to write about a movie...

Granted, Mr. D. is a student teacher. His last assignment was at a (much younger) primary school. Middle Schoolers can be fiercely judgmental and harsh with anyone in authority. (I know!) Getting a laugh--or a groan--from other students-- is as valuable as gold. I also know we could have been screening the newest "Avengers" film and they would have talked through it, complaining about possible writing assignments at the end. This wasn't about a lesson plan on Muslims, nor about Mr. Dandelion's management or teaching styles.

(Maybe I'm getting jaded or maybe we really do have a problem in American schools. Whereas kids across the world are dying just for the right to attend a secure classroom, our kids, here, in a clean, safe, well-supplied environment, are complaining because school doesn't allow them to "do anything we want when we want".) School actually requires them to begin to sort-out their lives; to begin to think for themselves (and not as part of a pack...); to handle tasks which seem boring or "hard" or aren't entertaining. Though part of this ennui is also developmental and will pass as they mature, I've seen this attitude keep real scholars back. Even kids along the middle continuum of achievement are adversely impacted by too-slack administrations who insist, at all costs, that teachers simply "talk nicely" and "deal" with troubled students who often hijack any real learning.

We want to support different learning styles--but we don't want to freeze out the majority of kids who can't learn to concentrate when a classroom is in chaos from two or three loud-mouths. If those disruptive kids can have back-up plans that are supported--i.e. para professionals in the room to assist the main teacher --or a quiet room where they can be taken to, to calm down or do their own work away from the class who also needs quiet to learn concentration and stamina--or support from Administrators who immediately support a teacher who sends a disruptive student out of a classroom and doesn't have to spend three-quarters of the class period "fencing, verbally", with the out of control student--oy vay!  These primary issues de-rail classes all around the country and seem to de-rail the real education goals everyone agrees upon! Why? Why is America so self-conscious and so self-absorbed by "image" that what is really important gets shunted aside?

Stamina, love of learning for learning's sake, overcoming boredom, concentration, good effort, even kindness for one's peers--aren't these things being modeled, anymore?  At home? In the culture? The media? School cannot, without support, do what no one else in the society seems willing to do--to take on the responsibility of truly teaching ourselves mindfulness. Mindfulness as a national agenda!
Whoa! What a concept!

(Meanwhile, I catch myself beginning to sound like MY teachers...brrrrrr. )

The fourth set of students meander inside, and Mr. Dandelion begins to introduce the video...lights down...whispering UP...I want to scream! I even hate people who talk through commercial movies--let alone kids who talk right through school films!

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a copy of  BUDDHA IN YOUR BACKPACK: EVERYDAY BUDDHISM FOR TEENS. (Written in 2002 by Franz Metcalf and Monk Song Yonk, I've seen this text in bookstores but never read it.) I discretely open the copy on my lap, as the video floods the classroom with blue light...My body is facing the overhead screen. I am in the darkest corner of the classroom. No one can see that I'm actually reading a book and not watching this documentary for the fifth time...

Instantly, I am reminded Who These Kids Are...
I am reminded Who I Am and am supposed to be...
I am reminded we are all acts in progress...in the act of Awakening...in the act of Becoming...in the act of disappearing (too).

My heart calms.
My heart opens--to the Muslims struggling with their own lives in a country wracked by fear--always afraid.
My heart opens --to Mr. Dandelion, as he struggles with a career he has dedicated his young life to--not getting the instantaneous respect and adoration he received from his younger students--Mr. Dandelion having to re-create himself on the fly, all "props" knocked out from beneath him--having to employ "Beginner's Mind" without knowing what "Beginner's Mind" entails in this moment.
My heart opens--to being forced to "observe"--when I want to jump in and react; to be silent--when I want to commandeer the classroom; at the very least--entertaining the troops and "saving the lesson".

My MIND remembers--we are all here to learn: every day; in every way; we are all Teachers; we are ALL students, struggling in the moment, together.

(To discover that book, placed there, found, in that darkened day; to be given the "open" minutes, to be reminded: ahh!)

Miracle!

Suddenly, a call comes in from the Office:"Ms. Minns--you are needed to cover Educational Support--please report to Room---"

(Released!)

Must leave the book outside my backpack, for the next Teacher to stumble upon.

(I can take Buddha with me, of course: inside.)

Mr. Dandelion mouths a silent "good-bye".

Several students also wave, respectfully.

I close the door behind me, re-entering The World.     

REMIX : as we approach Thanksgiving

As rain pelts off the tin edges of the roof, causing the songbirds to huddle, causing me to wake up, shivering in the dark, again forgetting exactly where I am, I feel the weight of the dry covers and realize: for now, I am safe.

As traffic honks and speeds up on both sides, swerving in the ice-storm, peripatetic in the race to the grocery store the mini-mall the drive-thru, I breathe once in, then out, then in, again; thankful I have a car which works; a car with gas; a car at all.

As I drive to the high school to drop off my very sparse "time sheets" for my side job of tutoring, dodging rain and, once inside, the lowered glances of full-time educators, as they sign-out from their assigned classroom positions, asking me "how's it going, Karen ?", then smiling before I even answer: I am thankful for a place to drop off my time sheets; for a student who needs my work and actually depends on me arriving at his home, ready to assist, ready to listen; a family who respects the professional I am and prays to retain me.

As I pull into the driveway at 88 Maple Street, moving my aging car off the road and escaping a "snow days ticket": I am thankful for someplace to park my vehicle and not have to pay. I am thankful the unrelenting rain is soaking into the ground and will sustain us from drought, in the spring and summer months, and is not piling up, waiting for me to fight with  my parents about staying off the ice outside, nor forcing me to scrape the driveway to its black bones.

As I come inside 88 Maple Street, hearing my Mother setting the table and smelling the mixture of steam-heat from the radiators and stove and the scents of cooking food: I am thankful for the longevity of my parental units and the miracle of another meal, hot and healthful, freely prepared and given to sustain us all, as a family.

As I open the door, Maeve, the still-happy-still- exuberant-dog, greets me with a yip and a dog kiss; my veritable fur-person: there is always someone here, glad I've come home.

Amen.  

ASSASSINATION AND SECOND GRADE

Fifty years ago, I woke up on Saturday morning, early.

As usual, I crept out of bed, and into the living-room. The oil heater blazed, adding the only warmth to the apartment. The sun was not yet out. It was a cold, November morning. (It would get colder, still.) From my parents' bedroom ( directly off the kitchen), I could hear Dad's Saturday morning snores. (He would rise late, as usual, after his Friday night "at the Club". Then, he'd take a quick shower and be off to one of his three jobs. Weekends were spent at the gas station in South Gardner. Sometimes back to Winchendon, and the furniture factory. We would see him later, after the sun went down and his "real weekend" began.)

Mom and my siblings were also asleep. I wasn't allowed to so much as pour a bowl of cereal until an adult got up. Already dressed in jeans, sneakers and a red-striped turtleneck, I scavenged last night's bowl of popcorn, still on the coffee table in front of the t.v. (Friday nights, Mom would pop corn and allow us each a can of soda--a big treat. My favorite was root-beer.) Sometimes, there would be an inch or two of cold kernels,  stuck at the bottom of the bowl. This Saturday, no such luck: unpopped corn and grease were the only remainders. I'd have to wait till Mom woke up to appease the rumbling in my stomach.

Moving carefully, so as to not make any noise, I slid over to the black and white television. I turned the dial and waited for the slow warm-up. It took several seconds for the picture to begin flickering and the sound to catch up.(In those days, the cabinet--fake rosewood--dwarfed the actual screen.) All the controls for sharpness, brightness, volume and channel selection were along the bottom panel.

Only four stations could be relied on to "come in" regularly: channels four, five, seven and the "educational channel", channel 2, out of Boston. (Occasionally, if the weather was right, we'd get Channel 13, broadcasting up in Maine or Vermont, somewhere. They played very old movies--mostly monsters or gangsters--off-limits if there were no adults around. Of course, the ONLY time we got to watch was when there were no adults to see what we had tuned in...) The "rabbit ears" on the back of the set were auxiliary antennae. They had to be manually "adjusted" if there was any hope of bringing in Channel 13. I reached around the cabinet and pushed the "ears" to the left.

News!
(News, on "Channel 13"!)
No "King Kong"; no "Wolfman"; no "Godzilla"!
(Up early, on Saturday morning, meant I got to choose the first set of Saturday cartoons...strong incentive for a night-owl like me...but this Saturday, I was being cheated!)
I adjusted the rabbit ears again. Forget Channel 13 ...back to regular "Looney Tunes" or "Woody Woodpecker".
Again: news!
No "Major Mudd", no "Rex Trailer", not even a re-run of "Romper Room"!

Every station was the same: talking heads. Flickering black and white footage of a long parade of motorcars and police and crying people. Then, back to the newscasters. (Even some of them were crying.)

"You aren't going to get any cartoons today, Kiddo," my Father stood in the doorway, pulling on a woolen jacket.
"How come?!" I demanded, startled at his sudden appearance.
"It's gonna be like this all day--get used to it, Kid," Dad jangled his car-keys.

"Why?" I didn't even glance over as he opened the front door. Hastily, I clicked the dial from station to station--praying he was wrong.
"Hey! Don't be so impatient--you'll break the knob and then there will be NO t.v. !" Dad stopped his morning retreat.
He came back into the living-room, watching the ghost images on the screen.
"Turn that up a little--"

Dutifully, I increased the volume.

"In Washington, crowds continue to gather as ..." the broadcaster's voice became yet another "old  man talking" for me. (Where were "Heckle and Jeckle" ? What planet had the "Jetsons" flown to?)

"They're just going to keep showing the President's assassination all day..." Dad cleared his throat.

(Suddenly, I remembered: we'd been let out of school, early, because of John F. Kennedy being shot in the head...oh yeah...But weren't kids Americans? Didn't our regular lives count for anything? What about our traditions? Like Saturday morning cartoons?)

"I gotta get on the road.Don't bug your Mother or your brother and sisters. I'll see you tonight..." Then, he was off, closing the door behind him.

Outside, the streetlights were still blazing.  Traffic was slow, but steady, on Main Street.

I heard my mother stirring in the bathroom. (She'd be asking me what I wanted for breakfast in a minute: oatmeal or cornflakes ?  Toast or an English muffin? Orange or grape juice? ) Ann and the twins would be up, soon, too. On  t.v., a long line of cars drove up a bigger street in a faraway city where grown-ups were screaming.

(At Sacred Heart School, when the announcement came over the intercom about President John F. Kennedy being shot in the head, the nuns had run out into the hallway, screaming...) We were all told to "say a prayer..."
But, it hadn't worked.

I flicked from station to station.
Exactly as before: talking white men and pictures of  people with microphones stuck in front of their faces. (Didn't they know that kids, everywhere, lived for Saturday morning cartoons? It was the benchmark of our lives!) It wasn't fair!

"K.K., what do you want to eat?" Mom called from the cold kitchen.

It just wasn't fair. 

Remembering The Fool

Laura Collins-Hughes, in this Sunday's New York TIMES, interviews various actors appearing on Broadway, in Shakespearean roles. The crux of the article is that performing Shakespeare, for anyone, can be a daunting trek.

Big surprise, eh?

It isn't just about being "on Broadway", either. It is about stepping out, that first time, when you are doing Shakespeare. The role may be something as simple as a guard on the palace parapet or a soldier on the battlefield. Or, it may be Romeo, or MacBeth or Juliette's Nurse...playing any character, from the tragedies to the comedies and back, requires a toolbox of multiple compartments. Playing Shakespeare, in any form, also marks the moment when you know: I am an actor.

I know.
Back in 1977, I was King Lear's "Fool". (I've never been the same, since...)

It was an all female production at an all-female college in a time when females were struggling to define new roles for themselves. Of course we understood the irony: in Shakespeare's day, NO FEMALES were allowed--even playing the very-feminine roles. (How many snide giggles rendered in High School English classes, across the world, at this historic revelation?) But, we were all fired up, and ready to take on the Bard's Ghost, himself, if need be, in hand-to-mouth combat atop the proscenium stage at Wells College.

Luckily, it never came to that.

An African American Senior, who we were all positive would become the first female president of the United States, was cast as King Lear. She was tall. She was talented. She could spit syllables like a classically trained actor. More importantly, she could memorize the Bible, if need be. (I was sure she was related to Maya Angelou and Teena Turner...such was her stage presence and vocal range...) She towered over me, putting the fear of Zeus into me, as I cowered at her slippered feet. Only a Junior at the time, I had longed to be cast next to her, after we played in "Godspell". (She was the controversial "Judas" character and I, a mere "Apostle"-who-juggles...) Perhaps that pairing opened the Director's imagination. A year later, I found myself walking, slightly hunchbacked, and carrying a rat's skull rattle, behind the raging "Lear".

Our biggest scene together was on the moors--in a thunderstorm. (It was also my most intimidating.) In previous Acts, I get to come across as mouthy, but wise. (Perhaps the only member of the household who gets to tell Lear the truth of his life without losing my own.) Not so in this dramatic turning point of the play. Lear has gone, truly mad. The elements conspire (elementally) to give him a wet wake-up call. (I am, it seems, no longer really needed.) All I can do is try to lead him out of the storm and towards some kind of shelter--our height difference, as well as our gravitas--cruelly outlined against the raging lightning bolts. My wit serves neither of us. Not only do I lose all "power" to the storm, the greatest help I can muster is a trembling voice and a silly "Hey Nonny No"  as we disappear into the night.

For me, learning the Bard's poetry via dialogue was not so difficult.( Like "Lear", herself, my mind was still bright and well-tuned to such diversions.) However, unlike "Lear"s trained alto, my own singing voice had been compared to Chinese half-tones. (Sounds seldom heard on English speaking stages. Even far less in American college theatre.) I was terrified!

"Practice in the shower, in bed, when you are running between buildings!" our esteemed Director had directed me.

Dorm-mates rushed into the shower-room, sure I was being attacked, at my first "rehearsal".  My entire floor began a petition: to have Minns- silent- by- ten p.m.- each night, and got the Resident Advisor to post it on the main floor. I scared grounds- crewmen (as well as small animals) if I sang between the buildings, on my way to various classes. So, it was only, in the wee hours when everyone else was asleep, that I could sneak into the theatre, via a cracked basement window, and crawl through the boiler room, to the stage, above, to practice. The building, itself, was not so old as some on the very old campus, but it was old enough. And, it was a theatre. Legit. Filled with haunted dreams, if nothing else.  My voice cracked, at the slightest weird sounds in the shadowed hall. There were many...

Even though I'd done well in "Godspell", the year before, it was more or less based on my juggling ability and my recorder solo in the show, not on my vocalizations. Not being a dancer of any sort, even my dancing exceeded my singing ability.

"Some of us can sing; others can dance; still others find their way onstage because of their 'presence' in a production. Let's leave it at that, shall we, Minns?" our Director had announced to the entire company.

So, I did. (Never questioning the "how" of my theatre career--only now, questioning the "why"?)

The self-same Director had suddenly cast me as "Lear's Fool".

"She knows you can act. It IS funny: you and Lear are so physically...mismatched..." my best friend, herself a dance major at the time, assured me.  "Look, I'm only cast as this "male suitor" that gets killed, stupidly...and she wants me to play him as a gay guy!  Clearly, she isn't casting for looks!"

(My quick intake of breath alerted my friend to her faux pas.)

"Oh come on, I didn't mean it like that! You know what I mean!  You can act. That's what she wants!
And you get to be one of the big roles--the Fool! I'd give ...something...to have landed the part; it's classic; it's, it's SHAKESPEARE, Minns!"

Seeing as we had both been in the cast of "Godspell", I forgave her. She was right: it WAS Shakespeare!

(She was also the person that gave me a shot of Jack Daniels, each night, about an hour before we hit the stage.)

It loosened me up for the first scene, and lubricated my throat for the storm.

I threw up after each performance.

(Sometimes, I threw up before.)

Lear, herself, as "King",  was magnificent. (While still not president, she is, however, doing something "very big" in Washington, D.C.)

My friend, the dance major, continues to sing, dance and act, to this day, even as her full-time occupation is as a psychologist. She never again played a gay, male character, though.

And I made it through "King Lear" with decent reviews.

(Years later, I even had some lead roles on-stage, in southern California--though never singing, and never in Hollywood.)

Reading the actor interviews, today, in the Sunday TIMES, I am thrown backwards. Yes. Yes. I, too, was "there":
all the acrobatic warm-ups: the sit ups; the stair running and yoga positions; the vocalized animal sounds; all of it that  the Broadway Shakespearean actors utilize, I did make use of, back in my day.
I was similarly terrified.
(Worked just as hard.)
And waited, with bated breath, for what the audience would remember.

For me: not a single line of the play sticks in my brain. (However, the bite of the whiskey, the roar of the thunder sheet, and the flop-sweat of the King, remain lodged, as if it were yesterday.)

Some things remain priceless.
 

ANN'S BIRDS

When I first arrived back in Massachusetts, the major change to our family yard was the installation of two large posts and five or six bird-feeders. They, along with the chain-link fence and huge sugar maple on the  yard's edge, insured the yard was always filled with wild-life. (Not including our familia...) Squirrels from the entire neighborhood also joined the fun--announcing to the chipmunks, skunks, possums and raccoons that there was a free lunch at the Minns' house.

Daily, upon arriving back from the hospital, Ann, in her scrubs, would refill the feeders, making sure to scatter the seed on the ground so no one was left hungry. Maeve would dutifully follow her "Mother's" footsteps, only pausing to pull a sunflower seed or two from her paws.  The birds knew when Ann's jeep would arrive. They would mass, ala Alfred Hitchcock, and begin edgily dive bombing each other. Even the squirrels would shoot "chattergrams" up and down the street, vying, with their feathered friends, for new grub.

This cost Ann literally hundreds of dollars a month, but, as with other sides of her character, she was unrelenting. "Everybody's got to eat..." she'd mutter, cigarette hanging from her bottom lip.

The birds still wait for her, though, now, she spends half her time at her new house, just on the town line. The two big bird feeding posts were rotting, so , when she moved, Kevin took them down. Dad tamped the earth to a more flat line--almost falling, yet again--in the process.
"It's mostly bird seed!" he announces, amazed at the spongey pile.

Now, there is still the birdbath and scattered food for the hordes put out a few times a week, but no feeders.
"We habituated them, now we have a responsibility to feed them through the winter!" Ann grumbles.
I guess the birds are happy to hear this because none of them have left.

Ann has installed feeders in the huge pine tree next to the swimming pool at the new house. In addition, there is a koi pond and frogs and fish to feed. A butterfly bush rounds out the visitors on the side yard. The crab apple and choke cherry trees lining the border, on the edge of the woods, brings the mammals out. When Maeve comes for a visit, she has to be on a leash at all times. Too many "intruders" to chase into the road. Too much accidental "doom" circling the place.

Yesterday, four ravens strutted their stuff under the pines.
Pheasants, in full dress, paraded out of the boggy woods, seeking refuge from the hunters from the Fish and Gun club, a half-mile away.
"If Kevin shoots anything in my yard I won't forgive him!" Ann grumbles, blowing smoke over the deck railing.

I watch a wild turkey call his flock to the edge of the grass.(He doesn't realize it is already November.) Hawks skitter and fall from high above us.A titmouse lands a few feet away, puffed up and busy. Something the size of a dove, moves in the tree...

"Time to get the winter seed from the store," Ann hugs her nightgown around her middle; pads back inside, trailing blue smoke.
Maeve follows.

Everywhere, the birds tweet their good luck calls.     

APATHY

Teaching a High School English class, yesterday, I asked the students to give their honest feelings on "apathy". (A study group of teachers were interested in approaching this issue and wanted some student feedback.)

"Ms. Minns, what's 'a path ee' ?"

"I know, I know! It's like when you are late for school, right?"

"No, Stupid! It's like when you don't give--"

"Don't give? Don't give what?"

" A f-----"

"Stop, please. Let's not use all our energy in talking...write what you think the word means. Then, write what you think makes people apathetic--full of apathy. Or, write ways you think might help cure apathy--ways you've gotten yourself out of an apathetic frame of mind. This is an opinion challenge, so, please, work by yourself."  I print the word on the board, noticing how strange words can sometimes look, just floating there, alone.  I sit at the "teacher's desk", pretending to busy myself in reading papers. Really, I am listening to the not-so-quiet discussions surrounding me.

"I had apathy once. I took some vitamins..."

"It's just, like, you know, something you go through..."

"Why do they think adults can do anything about it? Shit. It's just there. Period. Hashtag. Hashtag."

"I think, it's, you know, contagious. Really. If someone in class doesn't do his homework and it bugs the teacher, then, like, you know, everyone stops doing it--"

"Except for the Nerds--"

"Or the Crackheads--"

"Shut up! What do you know, Pigman?"

"You're being apathetic!"

"Not right now, he isn't! It means you don't give a crap--he obviously does give a crap--"

"My parents put me in therapy because they say I'm apathetic.  How is therapy gonna change that? It's just who I am. It's just how I am supposed to be--like my personality."

"Yeah! Exactly. You are an apathy-type person. I know lots of people like that--"

"No, you're mixing it up with depression. She's a depressed person--"

"That's what my shrink told my parents, too!  Then they gave me medications--which didn't work--then they changed therapists--which didn't work--"

"Then they sent you here, which didn't work!"

"Hahhahahahhahahahaha!"

"Stop laughing. It isn't funny. Wait until you're apathetic AND depressed; then you'll see what it's like..."

"Depression is bad, really bad. Like, people kill themselves over being depressed. I know some people who tried to kill themselves, for reals..."

"I know some people who said they were going to kill themselves if the Red Sox lost the World Series!"

"Yeah, so, like, they're safe!  Hahahhahhaa."

"You guys aren't funny."

"We're APATHETIC!"

"Shut up! I'm trying to think...Great, now you made me pissed off and I can't write! Thanks a lot!!"

"Ms. Minns...this assignment...is it going to be collected?"

"Ms. Minns...are you gonna grade these?"

"What about spelling?  Does it count?"

"What about handwriting?  I don't do cursive..."

"I print better than I write..."

"Can I do this on the computer?  I'm supposed to be allowed to use the class computer whenever I want to--"

"You are not! Don't listen to her, Ms. Minns. She's lying! "

"I am not! It's in my IEP..."

"How do you know what's in there? You aren't suppose to know!"

"How do you know what I'm supposed to know? You don't know me!"

"I have an IEP and I KNOW!
"Do we have to punctutate...like, use capitals?"

"How long does it have to be? I mean, it's too early to ask us to write an essay--"

"Yeah, it's not fair!"

"Does this count as a quiz?  I couldn't study last night cuz we went to the mall and I didn't get home till after midnight--"

"People are apathetic because they don't like learning, Ms. Minns."

"Yeah, Ms. Minns. When are teachers going to get that?"


(When, indeed?)



 

Macrocosm vs. Microcosm

     Dog treats from China are killing American dogs. My old publisher is moving to China to begin "a new adventure". Several of my "old" students are currently living/working in China and having a fabulous time. Most of the sneakers I own have been made in China. At least two of my closest friends have lived in China for some period of their lives. I have blog readers in China. China and Tibet remain at odds. The Dalai Lama seeks peace. I have always wanted to visit China.

     As one of millions of Americans drastically affected by Obamacare, I worry how I am going to afford health insurance of any kind OR pay for the meds my aging self now relies upon, without a full-time job--a situation also incurred during this current Presidency.  Mom and Dad continue to fall down, bruise and batter their eighty-plus year old bodies and have several different doctors' appointments each week. Medicare and their supplemental insurance plans cover their physical woes. They are far better covered than I have ever been. How can I afford to get new glasses and new lenses and fit in an eye appointment without my current health care plan? I can't get a full-time job without an updated pair of specs, yet, every time I make enough money substituting or tutoring, to afford new specs, my insurance plan is cut.

     War in oil producing zones (with the U.S.) raises heating and gas prices and destroys the planet. Oil production and gas production destroys the planet. Use of automobile and gas-guzzling transportation destroys the planet. Human existence destroys the planet. The gas and oil and auto and human industries offer jobs and sustenance to millions of humans and allow human beings to possibly have increased comfort, health and personal lives. Pollution causes cancer and destroys lives. Destruction of all human life may save the planet. For what? For whom?

     Getting myself healthy via diet and exercise will reduce the need for meds and doctors. Affording fresh produce and vitamins can only occur with a well-paying and sustained employment opportunity. Looking good means: neat and up to date clothing kept sharp; contemporary eyewear that matches my current prescription; a reliable means of transportation; make-up and hair products; a safe environment in which to keep clothing, health products, make-up, etc. and to sleep eight hours a night; a kitchen to cook healthy meals and keep to a clean diet; a safe place to exercise and good health care to keep exercise related injuries healing; which means ability to pay rent; have healthcare; have access to transportation and afford necessary clothing, food and medical supplies. Mental health means community; friends; romance and family--not necessarily in that order. Mental health means sobriety; self-esteem; self-worth and direction. Mental health means jobs; hobbies; activities and connections. I cannot afford to leave my parents' home because of their health and mental health needs; my own lack of a full-time income; family connections. Because I need to live at my parents' home, I have no community and few adult friends in this place. I have a car that I cannot drive outside the outskirts of this town because of gas prices; repair costs and its aging condition. I cannot afford gym membership nor pool membership without a full-time job. Without an arts and feminist community and the support of such communities and the day to day life with age-appropriate friends outside of familial support, my self-esteem, sense of purpose, growth and romantic life fades away. Without confidence, self esteem and direction, the motivation to exercise, even in the cold of New England winters, withers. Without health care and easy access to it, the body also goes downhill.
Without good health, one cannot work nor will one be likely hired to begin work. I cannot see past my parents' demise.

     If Dad goes first, all goes to Mom and she wants to get rid of this home--the childhood abode of my sibs and myself and the adult crashlandingpad for all of us. If Dad goes first, Mom wants to be in an "adult community"--where all of her savings will go to keep her in care. She has never lived alone nor in such a place and has fantasies that it is like a college situation--only you have your own apartment. She has fantasies that she will be surrounded by friends and family will constantly be over to visit--as they are, now, in the family abode. Most of her friends have passed. The family is scattered and use the family home as a center of connection. The center of connection would not hold in an adult assisted living apartment complex. We have experienced several aunts and uncles end their days in these places...Mom has always paid more attention to "her version" of reality than what is going on in the world.  If she goes first, Dad will not leave this house until he's dead. But Mom takes care of his "personal needs"--including accompanying him to all the doctor visits, nursing him when he is sick, here, and "keeping house"--mostly vacuuming and cooking his dinner. If he goes down, as he has been doing a lot, lately, and breaks something and gets bedridden, one of us will have to be with him, fulltime. If one of us is with him fulltime, that person can't have a job of any kind, beyond his care. The sibs aren't in a position of paying whomever is taking care of him, fulltime, even if one of us wanted to do it. Millions of people face this position. I have read the novels and non-fiction accounts. I have seen the plays and movies and interviews. Most of my best and closest friends have begun losing their parents...but most of my best and closest friends are also married, with partners, and their lives are not so intimately connected on a daily basis. I fear being weak. I fear being selfish. I fear knowing what to do and question if I'm here for them, the family or just for myself, because I still don't have a full-time job. Millions of Americans are now without full-time employment and barely getting by. Because I'm living at the family home and Dad has a pension, I don't qualify for state healthcare--I made five thousand dollars last year, in total. If I moved onto the street I would qualify--and maybe for food stamps and housing, as well. It would kill my parents if any of their educated children were on the street. It would kill me if I was on the street.
Many people ARE on the street, or in shelters, or hiding in their cars or in the woods.

     Many millions of people are refugees, with nothing.
     Many people are refugees because of what this country has wrought.
    
    Tomorrow night, it is supposed to snow.

TAKE A CLOSER LOOK, BABY

The first time it happened was when I finally got my ponytail clipped. I had been forced to wear hair past my shoulders for much of my early life and hated every minute of it. It got tangled. It made my head hot. It made my neck itchy. Mom had to grab me and hurry a hurtful comb/brush through it, daily, before dealing with my four siblings--an unpleasant task for both of us. (No luxury time spent with a beaming nurturer who blithely glided a gilded comb through Goldilocks' locks...at my house it was grab, rake, pull and yell.) I allowed the ponytail only because it got the long hair out of my way, AND an older, gorgeous cousin, wore her hair that way. But by age five, I'd had enough.

It was only days into my "Pixie cut" that Dad took me along to the garage, where he worked, part-time.(Often, I'd accompany him on Saturday afternoons--playing in the rusty-water streambed behind the gas-station.) Dad could "sort of" keep an eye on me and still pump gas, make change, check tire pressure and change oil for his customers. I was thrilled with the pseudo-freedom. (Polluted or not, frogs croaked along the streambed, and dragon flies filled the air with rainbows.)

As I entered the garage doors to claim an afternoon grape soda from the machine,one of Dad's "cronies" made a crack about my new haircut: "When did you get the new son, Jim?"

Dad's face colored almost as red as mine.

"I'm a girl!" I stammered, wanting to defend myself before Dad was forced into it.

Dad and his buddy deflected my upset with guffaws. I spun out of the garage, running back to the streambed, furious.

Not only had Dad not defended me, when we got home, he yelled at my mother to make sure my hair was never again cut so short!  (Something in me broke at that point.) My sisters had long hair--one, a deep brown and curly; the other, golden blonde and falling to her butt. My brother had a crew cut--his blonde hair so light, he looked bald in the sun.  I wanted something of my own: out of my face and in the middle of the extremes. (I didn't want to BE a boy--I just wanted to be able to DO the fun things the boys got to do: wear comfortable clothes; get dirty and not be reprimanded for it; collect frogs or sticks or stones in their pockets; run outside, without having their hair pulled by its roots, everyday; hang out with Dad and not be made fun of for doing it...

A week later, Mom came home with my first "Toni Perm"  My sisters and I were doused with the stinky, stinging chemicals for what seemed like an entire day. The results were typical 60's home permanents: brillo pads atop little kids. (At least  I looked somewhat "girlish".)  Dad was relieved. My heart remained bruised, however,even as my head continued to be battered.

Until I left for college, I let my hair brush my shoulders. Photos from those years capture the attempts at feminine gracefulness that was never mastered. It was while at college when my hair rebellion burst forth, finally full-throttle. The summer before I left for Los Angeles, I had a friend shear my locks down to a punky inch and a half--tinted and ready-- for the Left Coast.(Oddly,once there, I grew it out, again, seeking employment, and living with 70's boys who were all "Stayin' Alive". Beegee shags were being sported, and I wanted to somehow fit.)

When the boys left the condo (and radical women friends moved in), I was punked out, again, shorn to an inch of my life and experimenting with color. If someone approached me from behind, I found that I'd be called "boy", or, "kid"--the implication that I was a young man. As soon as I turned around or they came full-face with me, the apologies would begin.(No mistaking me from the front.)
Still, my face would redden--as much because of their discomfort as from my own.

I came to painfully understand that we don't really look at each other in this society. We make flash judgments based on hair and height and clothing just as readily as we make judgments about skin color or wrinkles or weight.

I began to play with people's minds, then.(Even wore my hair in a crewcut, several times--but always with make-up and lots of jewelry.) Still, the  hair was judged, first.  It was only as Sinead O'Connor burst on to the scene --and the rise of cancer survivors was paid attention to in the mainstream press-- that people didn't suck in their breath when a woman sported a buzz.

I prided myself on raising the consciousness of hundreds.

One day, in a crowded classroom of  loud middle schoolers, I had to keep reprimanding a student for interrupting the class. (No matter who had the floor, this kid wouldn't stop talking out of turn.) It was a new group of kids, so I hadn't memorized every name nor even every face. This student was seated  at a round table in the corner, surrounded by friends. Short, pudgy, motor-mouthed, reminding me much of myself at that age--the chatter was hijacking the entire morning's lesson-- interfering with other students' presentations.

"Will the talkative ladies in the back please stop, now?  I've asked  you, politely, to keep  quiet several times--"  I shot my darkest look in the direction of the corner table.

The class turned around in their seats and grew silent.

We went on with the oral presentations.

Again, noisy chatter, giggles, the sounds of pushing and moving chairs, erupted from the back table.

"Hey! I'm not kidding! You girls are being very rude to your classmates and disrespectful to all of us! Please stop talking and pay attention!"

Again, silence rose in the classroom.

We went back to the presentations.

Within ten minutes, there were giggles, voices almost at full volume, and the sound of horse-play from the back of the room, including a stack of books falling to the floor with a  thud.

"Okay, that's it! You girls at that table will see me after class!"

Not a single word rose up after that.
The energy in the room, however, wasn't one of relief. It was almost morbid. (Gone was the excitement of kids wanting share their research.) The joy of the assignment was banished. I knew I was now the "Ogre Queen" and my hoped for English Adventure in Oral Reports was a negative experience. ARRRRRRGH.

The class filtered out quietly.

Finally, the two girls from the back table, who had found it impossible to be quiet during class, were in front of me.

The most talkative one, with the thick, auburn ringlets to her shoulders, the wide brown eyes and cupid's bow lips scowled. Short, chubby, dressed in baggy sweatshirt and baggier jeans, she spat out the words," I'm NOT a girl!"

(I adjusted my glasses.) I coughed.

"He's not a girl..." the taller student, his friend, whispered, staring at him, and then at me, behind my desk.

"I, uh,...oh...I...guess...you know, I don't know you all, yet...so..." I stuttered, lamely, the instant blush, plastering my cheeks.

"We tried to tell you...I'm a guy..." the boy said, half -believably.

"I guess I need to get my glasses checked...you know how it is when you get older..." I answered, also telling a half-truth.

"Okay." The boy generously forgave me.

(Both students blithely went on their way, justified, and off the hook for detention.)

I finished the day without further incident--forever schooled, from the other side of the fence.

Malala, Noble Prizes and "American Horror Story:Coven"

While my familial world rocks and rolls with mothers going down and bruising ribs in the middle of the night, ambulance rides in the cold darkness to the hospital, new bells and buzzers for each parental unit to summon me from anywhere in the house, and a confused dog who doesn't know what the hell is going on, the outside world spins merrily on.

This past week, the Noble Peace prize was awarded to a wonderful peace activist technology group that monitors and disarms chemical weapons of destruction. They narrowly "beat out" Malala, the young woman education activist who was shot in the head for merely going to school--surviving the attack, healing in England, and returning to organize peace and education workers around the globe, all for the rights of girls to become enlightened in a male dominated world. As some newscasters in America commented: "She's young; she's amazing; she is going on to a stellar career that will surely include a Noble Prize down the road...chemical weapons, given current events in Syria, are more in the forefront right now..."

(Well, I disagree, but, again, who am I to say this? Just another female educator in a western country, far from the wars' edge...hmmm.)

Also in the American news this week: the third season of the t.v. series "American Horror Story". This year, the storyline involves witches--witches who have fled persecution in New England and sought refuge in New Orleans. Witches who truly possess magical powers--talents passed down through their genetic code. These aren't the innocent bumpkins seeking emotional release, from Salem's uptight communities in the 1600's, but are powerful females who fight back when discriminated against--even against each other.  As I tuned into the season opener, I was shocked and delighted to see that the series continues exploring many of the "taboo" subjects from American history usually swept under the carpets (or into the closets). Issues of slavery, misogyny, rape, torture, sadomasochism, illicit love, poverty vs. over-abundance, and the on-going stereotypic roles of women through the ages--and how individuals are always striking out against these stereotypes. Quite heady stuff as the world goes into another cycle of wars, misogyny, government corruption, shut-down and overall mayhem. (How ironic when a "horror series" isn't quite as horrible as the everyday reality surrounding us...maybe it is this irony that demands horror films to now include humor, in order to be lauded by viewers of the genre?)

I must admit that "American Horror Story" is well acted, paced and written. It is "smart t.v."--and it knows that it is, even as it delivers. The returning cast from the other two seasons are familiar faces with new roles to flesh out. They include actors from all races, some with disabilities, some old and some new. The prevailing common denominator is that each one is a superb craftsperson and a consummate ensemble member. While this plot has, in its first hour, countless threads flying off in many directions, I have no doubt it will spin them together and catch us in its inevitable web of terror.
Still, the real world intervenes...

As I watch my parental units struggle with yet another round of illness, bodies letting them down, weakness and lack of freedoms hemming them in, I see women in Syria suffering from their own lack of freedoms, lack of access, their bodies both prison and destiny. I also watch Kathy Bates and Jessica Lange bemoan their losing battles with age, physical rot and secondary power, surrounded by men who rise without even one wit of their intelligence or ability. Yeah, its t.v. mirroring world politics. Yes, it is the political and the personal meeting in my living room. Yes, if you involve the stories of women--real or imagined--there is a history of blood. There is betrayal and frustration and too much hiding behind whatever disguises society deems necessary to control our rawness, power.

As an educator, I smile when Jessica Lange's "head witch" character chuckles at the school for young witches in New Orleans (run by her daughter) teaching young women to "blend in"...she compares it to another dream: Harry Potter's Hogwart's. (Art imitating art, while, in real life, women's educational activism is seen as secondary to chemical weapons of destruction...)

A witches' school for empowering young women, gone rogue, doesn't seem like such a bad idea...O how different our reality would be...girls taught to claim their God-given gifts most profoundly...without the  need for disguise or regret. What a world...what a world, indeed.

Malala, you should have won...Girls, we have to keep pushing to remember who we really are...We have to set ALL the slaves free. 

WASHED AWAY

Midst all the warspeak from Obama, (plus the U.S. Congress stalling with a budget that will provide services American taxpayers have already paid for (!)), there came a flood of Biblical proportions--at least to the people caught in its rampage.

Colorado is one of those states in America where the sheer geographical beauty makes one believe that we are more than just "meat"...we have souls that sometimes can hear the Universe's song. It is not, simply, the pure mountain air. It is the forests; the wildlife; the plunging rivers; the weather that will always reign. Colorado keeps its citizens in awe--and in humility. If they forget that Nature always wins, in the end, they often forfeit their lives.

I have many friends in that mountain state. Some are wealthy. Some are famous. Some are outdoorspeople who have fled the tediousness of the city. Many are skiers, bicyclists, river rats, backpackers, hunters and fishers. Some prefer climbing the peaks; some prefer scrambling over boulders; some simply hike the bracing paths, counting birds and butterflies. All of them drink coffee; breathe deeply and wouldn't trade their geography for anyplace else on Earth.

The Colorado citizens I know have learned to create community--whether it be in the larger pockets of civilization, such as Denver and Boulder, or the tiny mountain villages past eight thousand feet. They know how to operate generators; how to fill the bathtub with extra water when it storms--in case the power goes out--so they can flush the toilets, etc. They share provisions; watch out for their elders; keep an eye on each other's kids and pets. They get together for local concerts and art shows. They ski cross-country to deliver baked goods and messages. They plow or shovel or simply snow-shoe over the ever-falling white stuff, to stay in communication with each other. No one is left cold or hungry or in darkness in a crisis. Yeah, there is gossip and competition and the human comedy one finds everywhere, but there is also a mountain spirit that supercedes: you must rely on others.

After the terrible wildfires this past year, which ripped through the mountains, finally were contained, Nature, in its powershifting cycle, sent rain. Unfortunately for the humans, there was too much exposed land, now burned and loose, unable to absorb the downpour fast enough. Mudslides, flooding, rivers exploding with debris, loose boulders still charred from the fires, all came running down, knocking apart anything in their path. This included all man-made structures: roads, bridges, homes, schools, cities...

Yes. It was that kind of disaster.

In my friends' village, just a few miles (minutes) from one of the hardest hit towns, they hunkered together. Her husband is a techie and miraculously kept the village connected to the outside world...somehow. Word got out among the survivors. My friends' home became "communications central". They hosted everyone who could hike up to their house--offering what coffee and provisions remained--and power to recharge electronics. They offered sporadic internet service and towels. They offered news from off the mountain and messages sent to panicked loved-ones everywhere. Mostly, without being asked, they offered solace. Community. Brief respite, even as the waters continued to thunder down.

I received some of those messages. I caught first glances of the destruction. (Having been in wildfires in the west, myself, and not a few flashfloods, I was unprepared for the absolute clout of this disaster!) Even as my friends begin to struggle upright, now, getting support from National Guard and FEMA and Red Cross, the destruction is soul-numbing. Whole towns have almost been washed away. Infrastructure which allows human life up and down the mountains won't be replaced for...well, no one knows. It may take years. Roads, power lines, schools, homes, businesses--all scrubbed from the mountainside. Sanded down to the roots. What took generations to build has been wiped away--again demonstrating how tenuous human hold is upon this planet.

Even writers who live there are barely able to scratch through the haze of disbelief. No adjectives are left. Nothing prepared them for this kind of disaster. No tornado footage nor western wildfire coverage nor even the great blizzards they contend with every year. Nada. So, they try to capture the living history of neighbors crawling through mud, just to reach ground to breathe. Or the memory of a town Patriarch, caught in bed, as his house was buried with him inside it. Or making small pots of coffee on a rain-sodden deck, using the last of the bathtub water and propane, trying to find a bit of humor in the mundane, even as Heaven raged around them.

There is a disconnect in this country this year. Something has shifted. Perhaps it is the lack of willingness to admit the economic severity of the Great Recession--or its impact on everyone from the middle down. The rich have a false sense of safety; making decisions that seem to only strengthen their position. What they don't realize is that America was made by its poorest masses. Its struggle was what gave it position in the world. Hope was its greatest "national product"; its greatest "sell". Colorado and its people, still trapped, may feel minimized in the headlines, but they are not forgotten. Their communities have learned what communities the world over know: in the end, wealth does NOT save you. In the end, we are in this together--with or without our government. Common individuals are who make America great. We have to reach out to each other.

 If the disaster in Colorado teaches me anything, it is simply that.  

MY TOOTH HAS LEFT THE BUILDING

My sister Ann has little corn teeth--at least some of them. Like the tips of candycorn, when she smiled, as a child, one was immediately reminded of Halloween. For Ann, this was a public embarrassment. Most of her adolescent photographs have her looking closed mouthed and perturbed.
In later life, the little corn teeth, which I found impish and endearing, were "fixed". However, her soft-toothed genetics have caused her many crowns and caps and overall dental hell. For this, I am truly sorry --glad that her job as a nurse allows her continued dental repair. Recently, she was in torment as one of those old corn teeth needed to be harvested...

My mother's teeth  have always been a cause of  fright--for her children.
When my mother was young, she had a wide gap between her front teeth. In those days, the answer was to fill the gap with "a partial"--a false tooth set-up with wires that connected the false teeth to the other teeth and allowed for snappy "in and out" action. My mother was thrilled with the dental "fix".
(However, it has always caused her moments of anxiety,so much so, that in her will, ANY dental needs, cosmetic or otherwise, will be taken care of, for life, for her three grand-daughters...)

My siblings and I remember our mother going ballistic, often, when we were little. One of her demonic tricks was to "snap out" the partial and bare her spaced-out teeth. She resembled nothing less than a ghoulish monster--not quite an evil witch and not quite  a vampire--but decidedly something to dread. She could clear the kitchen in a single open-mouthed grin. (She now admits that upon one or two occasions, she may have "let the partial drop", just for "fun"..."as a joke"...) To us, it was no joke.

I believe much of my relationship with my mother may be based on the fact that I never knew which "Mom" I was relating to--nor when the "evil Mom" would appear in front of me--gap toothed and grinning. On the other hand, perhaps my fascination with all things slightly creepy--including vampires--began with my mother's partial???

Dad went into the dentist with excruciating jaw pain two weeks ago. He is already on severe pain meds for his back and hips, so this pain had to be debilitating to cause him to shed tears. As he mouthed his supper, wincing, he begged my mother to call the dentist. (I wanted her to call the emergency line, but she, insisting it was "a Wednesday and no doctor is around on a Wednesday night..." wouldn't make the request until the next morning.) So, Dad grinned, ground his steak into swallowable hash and wiped the occasional tear from his eye.

Next day, he went into the dentist. Luckily, the oral surgeon's practice was next door. They took him  immediately. Zing zing zing. The oral surgeon offered a special "three for two" deal--three of dad's remaining natural teeth out,for the price of two extractions. (Dad has always jumped at deals.)
When he came home, half his face swollen to pumpkin size, the other half loose and bleeding, he resembled Mom on her "evil days".

"At least he doesn't have dentures," Mom said, bringing him ice.
(At least.)

I know that in the last two and a half years, I have been grinding my teeth in my sleep. Stress will do that. Sometimes, I wake myself up. However damaging this may be, I have not had dental insurance for a long time. A firm believer in all things hygienic, I have always taken good care of my teeth.
Because I had a front line of straight pearly whites, as a child (though the back teeth look like silver bullets...1950's family-friend dental care fillings...), unlike my siblings, I never was the proud recipient of corrective braces. My smile has always been deemed : passable. But, this stress-induced grinding has ground me down.

I knew something had to give.

I woke up with a bloody taste in my mouth and a hole in the back tooth that I could fit a gumball into.
Dad's recent trip to the dentist cost him almost seven hundred dollars per tooth! (And that was with decent insurance!) Ann's little tooth- ache involved a crown and oral surgery, too, and ended up closer to two thousand dollars!

I believed that I would have to endure, perhaps loading a Chiclet and some Krazy Glue into the hole in my back molar...

While subbing at the High School, I saw a flyer posted for the Gardner Dental Clinic. The add proclaimed that this state-funded enterprise turned no one away for lack of funds. No one.
I was someone who lacked funds and had an immediate need...I tucked the flyer into my notebook and promptly forgot about it.
Until my tooth began to scream.
(A high-pitched, bloody, throbbing sound that moved from my inner ear to  my outer-brain stem in syncopated time.)
I dug out the flyer and made the appointment.

"Soonest we can take you, Ms. Minns, is in December--" the secretary was clicking away on her computer.
"Oh, please, this is my wisdom tooth. I think I broke it off!"  I was pleading.
"Wait...okay...there's an appointment in two weeks..."
I could have kissed her.

By the grace of God, or the Tooth Fairy, or some being of light and compassion,(as well as the receptionist), I knew I only had to hold on for another fourteen days. I scarfed aspirin and ibuprofen,  avoiding all things crisp  or crunchy, and slept only on my back. Any nagging fears about the clinic, having a tooth removed, being chastised for neglecting my dental health for two years, etc. were forgotten. I was going to have the pain removed! O joy! O ecstasy ! O delight!

Anyone who has ever experienced mouth pain from a broken, infected, impacted or just plain rotten tooth, will understand--even wince as they read this. (Poor Dad! Poor Mom! Poor Ann!) Anyone who has suffered through years of braces or dentures or even a chancre sore, knows of which I speak.

Swallowing my pride as an unemployed/partially employed professional, I filled out all forms post haste, flashed my photo i.d. and state-health card. I was immediately whisked down a labyrinthian corridor, into the tiniest office I'd ever visited. There, a jolly technician sat me down in the enormous chair. She proceeded to take an x-ray and chuckle at my nervous banter.

A few  minutes later, a spry, muscle-bound, gray-haired dentist entered the room. (Why are all the dentists I've had been spry and muscle-bound?) He introduced himself as Dr. Cohen. We shook hands--after which he immediately put on rubber gloves. Then, he showed me, via his computer screen, what looked like the Rocky Mountains at dusk.

"Your crown is completely shattered...it's gotta come out, right now...we need you to sign the release and to know it can go two ways: first, I get a good grip and it pops right out...or second, it smashes into shards and we have severe problems...."

Shards???????????????????????????????????

(I thought of Ann and her little corn teeth.  I thought of Mom and her monster fangs. I thought of Dad and his bargain-striking oral surgeon...)

I signed the release.

Dr. Cohen and his nurse shot me full of fast-acting novacaine (or something similar).  Immediately, I couldn't even swallow. No spit. No blood. Just dry breath--which I concentrated on--just breathe--just breathe--just breathe.
After minutes of this mantra, Dr. Cohen was suddenly above me, looking down. (Or what I could see without my glasses.) His fuzzy face told me: Relax!
I closed my eyes.
I thought of the Dali Lama--of St. Francis and St. Michael and St. Joan--of my animal totems and walking in the woods by a flowing stream and----
"Done!" Dr, Cohen literally shouted from behind my head.

I'd noticed the grinding ripping sounds coming from the vicinity of my mouth. I'd felt the pressure of his thick finger pressing my broken tooth (as well as the crowbar he used to loosen it), but thank God, no pain.
No pain.

Suddenly there was gauze filling up the hole in my jaw. A brief taste of tin. Warnings about what not to drink or eat or do for the next twenty-four hours, and what to do if I ignored these warnings.

I hopped down from the big chair.
I shook both the tech's hands and Dr. Cohen's.
"You're like a Civil War dentist!" I slapped him on the back.
"How so?" Dr. Cohen looked up from my chart.
"Fast and effective!" I tried to grin but just managed to drool.

I thanked them both, again, and headed out into the humid afternoon, undrugged, a little bruised, but mostly relieved.

(On the way out, I did request that they not make any jewelry from my molar.)

•            

DEFEAT

We learn from it: defeat.

Don't give up. Never give up. Go down swinging; fighting; praying; to the last breath believing.
Don't give up.
Never give up.
Even if you are the final person standing, or kneeling, or sucking at the dust.
Never give up.
Even if  you are the only person staggering to continue; bleeding out with no one around; praying to what seems is a deaf and uncaring God: don't give up.

Never. Ever.
Even if you are the only person believing in yourself and your own belief is crying out: Why?
You cannot give up --on yourself.

Perhaps this is the hardest lesson of all.
( Perhaps this is the folly of a mad artist facing her own despair.)
Or, perhaps this is the whispered hope of angels...a message to a faulty human from a perfect Creator...THIS IS HOW YOU EVOLVE.

This is how we grow.
This is how we progress and become and learn to fly.

Pick yourself up. Knock off the dust. Wash off the blood. Take a breath. Look at the sky.
Or the dirt.
Or the trees.
 Breathe some more.
Move in one direction, however slowly, however painfully, however clumsily, but keep moving.
Keep breathing.
Keep believing: this, too, will end. This, too, will change.

I have not always dwelt in this failure. I have not always crawled through this pain.
I have not always been this hungry, nor tired, nor dirty nor hopeless.

I have known grace.
I have witnessed light.
I have laughed and shared and touched.
I have been touched back, in return.
There have been kisses and caresses and kind words. There have been dances and singing and parties in my honor.
My name has been spoken with love; with reverence; with respect.
Numbers do not matter. Who has the most "friends" in the world, at this time, does not matter.
(Who has the biggest bank account or the most "toys" doesn't win.)

These are transient properties, always changing, ephemeral and wild. Everything is made of atoms. Atoms are everywhere. Electricity unites us. There is more ''dark matter'' in the Universe than what we can see with our eyes. Mystery abounds. Defeat is a passing phenomenon, like rain in the desert. And as with rain in the desert, defeat will yield to a glorious harvest--in time.
In time.

In time, I am not alone.

I will always have one person who depends on me; who loves me; who knows me inside and out; who will never abandon nor leave.
I have myself.

The Universe is contained inside me.
However cold or dark the circumstances surrounding me; however dim the light around me; this is Truth.
The Universe is me.
I cannot be alone.
I am supposed to be here.

This promise has been handed down through the eons; the greatest Teachers have carried it and passed it to us, unblemished; undiminished; unchanged.

Believe.
Breathe.
Be.

Embrace defeat; see it as the ally it is meant to be. A lesson in motion; longevity; perfection.

Keep moving, forward, if you can, sideways if you must.
Seek out others, even if they are in the distance or in the shadows or in the darkness surrounding you. (Seek out others who softly moan, believing they, too, are alone and lost.)
 Seek them out and reach out and call out to them.
Tell them that we will move along, together, toward a different moment.
A time when Light will, again, rule.
A time when our voices will be heard; treasured and written down as Truth.

A time when what we have brought into existence will be recognized; valued for the gift it was meant to be.

If you do not share what you were meant to bring to this planet, it is lost, forever.

Forever. Believe.

Rise. Breathe. Move on, again.
   

O SYRIA...

I speak only for myself. However, I speak as an educated, middle-aged poet who happens to live in America. I try to speak for people who have lost their voices; their hearts; sometimes their minds. For people who speak only in signs or whispers or hooded looks. For people beaten down; uncounted; uncared for. For people disrespected; with no sense of self-importance; with no clout in the world. Mostly, though, I speak for myself, as an American who is concerned about the World.

Syria, we are trying to find the truth.
We are terrified for your gassed and gagging people--and we are terrified for your neighbors.
(We still have survivors of chemical warfare--from all the other wars we entered, believing they, too, were "the right thing to do".)We have lived through those nightmares. You call them to the surface of our dreams. We awake, choking and confused; trying to believe SOMETHING has to be done to stop yet, another genocide. But what to do?

 American people are NOT their government, though our government would have you believe this were true. Often, it is the wealthiest and most influential, who "own" our government,who "will" our government to do what it does. Sometimes, our people are given the wrong information. Sometimes, our people are mislead and manipulated with statistics that have been fabricated...or worse.

Sometimes our people choose to allow this deceit. (Sometimes, it is just easier.) Most times, we get pissed off.

We vote new politicians in. We school our children; gather information; try to assimilate the many changing truths of the World.

Syria, the American people are so damned tired of war. We are suffering in what our government has refused to call "a depression". (Many people forget that even in the Great Depression, when their grandparents were kids, there were rich folks who grew wealthier, still.) Not everyone was on a bread- line, or selling pencils on a street corner, nor riding the rails. The same upper caste exists, today. The same "other classes" still suffer in these new economics.

 Our government continues to fight itself; to issue half-truths; to rally us to sacrifice--even as it votes itself higher pay and longer vacations...Even this "new hope" president is now dancing to the war-drums. Even he might leave his aggressive mark upon the World. Our citizens are losing homes; jobs; savings; hope. Yes, the complexion of our government is changing, but its actions remain tantalizingly familiar. Better speech-makers don't save anyone. We are all so tired of war...

O Syria, call your people to your bosom and save yourself! Stop murdering your children. Stop trying to silence those whose voices are just now beginning to be heard. The American people would like to help you reconstruct yourself, even as we continue to reconstruct ourselves. We are global citizens on a teetering planet and we all need to hold on...to each other.

No more war. Anywhere. Please. This is one American sending her words into the World.

SILENCED.

The 1980s, in California, will always remain in my memory backed by a soundtrack (heavily) featuring Linda Ronstadt. Yeah, there were other groups and other soloists riding the air-waves, but as I rode the real waves, a wailing Ronstadt fed my imagination.

Perhaps it was because she also played "the beard" for hip (then) governor, Jerry Brown; even flying with him to Africa? Perhaps it was her raggedy edge denim hot-pants and roller skates? Maybe it was the enormous doe eyes and that mop of dark hair? Perhaps...Yet, most of all, it was her luscious vocals,wailing love songs from two different cultures. She entered more than my reality: she entered my heart.

As we both aged, I lost sight of her. It was less a matter of "growing up" than a matter of too many choices; too many emerging musical interests. Always eclectic in my tastes, I was moving past "punk" and into "classical" music, with a minor in opera. Environmental and spiritual sounds could be heard ringing from my Silverlake apartment at all hours of the day or night. (Ronstadt would make her way into private reveries--or when romance went south--but she wasn't on the daily rotation.)

As I moved out of the city for a while, down to the beaches of Orange County, mainstream top forty, dance mixes, industrial and electronic beats prevailed. Then, back to reggae, hard rock and old blues.  Chorale groups took over for a time, leading to Gospel and on to World Music. Percussion experiments, (including Pygmy rainforest sounds) rained on my head at The Farm School. So too, did Tibetan mountain songs, Indian Chants (Buddhist and Hindu), Chinese healing music, then back to the Americas for a panoply of Native American shamanistic music.  (Somewhere along these stellar lines, I lost connections to Linda--unless someone nearby hit "Blue Bayou" on their oldies list. Is there anyone around who can't stop for a moment, when Ronstadt hits that final note?)

Earlier, this week, I was informed that there will be no more glorious sounds emanating from the woman's throat. Parkinson's has invaded her body, making it impossible to ever sing, again.  (How is that possible? There's got to be a mistake!) The news hit me as I just finished picking up my fallen father, covered in oatmeal and coffee, after he dropped his breakfast tray in front of the morning news report. Dad down, but not out.(Linda out, but not "down".) Both trying to re-boot themselves. (Less re-invention and more "how can I survive this body betrayal"?)

How, indeed?

When one is given enormous gifts, there comes enormous responsibilities.
(Enormous.)
Ronstadt never seemed to allow her rocketing fame to burn her out, as so many of the stars from my youth did. She always was so normal, so approachable, so "cute"-- in the best way. When she reclaimed the Mexican love songs from her own youth, the heartbreak and purity gave one chills, even if the culture was not one's own. She allowed a sharing of "art"--perhaps the purest art--from her own cells--her throat and lungs-- into the Universe. The very body now breaking itself down made us "understand" something we might have missed, on our own.

Yes, there have been "other voices" down through the ages, from all cultures and times. Each is precious; revelatory. Perhaps making celestial music earthly, at least for a while. Hers could be numbered in their midst. It was more than a simple rock and roll character, created for mass appeal. Ronstadt was "the real deal".

So, do we toil under a capricious God? Is there cruelty when such gifts (presents that reveal the Creator...which is the biggest conundrum of all...) are ripped away?  Linda Ronstadt didn't make mockery of her stardom. She didn't take her voice for granted. She wasn't creepy nor mean nor even selfish. Her politics were never screaming at us--though they were present. She didn't rile us up with promises she would never keep, nor pretend she was something she wasn't. (She was  an anti-Diva; but with a voice that rivaled anyone belting out a number, today.) So, why would her voice be taken? It seemed a gift for us all--the working people, everywhere...

 I am also left wondering about this cost to her psyche--her Spirit. To be silenced, forever. (With Parkinson's, the voice, the singing voice, doesn't come back...)
Silenced.

I think of what it would mean to me if I were suddenly blind. If I could not paint nor draw nor even see a keyboard. (Yes, there are other ways to write, so maybe painting is a better analogy. Either way, to be suddenly deprived of  my truest "voice" in the world...) Could I bear it?  Day to day, after defining myself as an artist and a writer, for my entire life? After sacrificing many other paths--including relationships--to just "keep on" doing that which I felt I have been created to do? Would I bear it? (Could I bear it?)

I think of the millions of people, through time, who, themselves, have been "silenced": bad laws; corrupt governments; wars; natural disasters wiping out entire civilizations; always sickness; always, finally: death.

 How do we recover from these setbacks? Not abstractly nor historically, but individually. (Personally...?)

I can go "meta" and outward and deal with abstract numbers--or I can come back in, close, and think of Linda Ronstadt: forever quiet.

She remains alive; remains fighting her own body's changes. She must find new ways to communicate with the world. My prayers are that she is surrounded by family and friends who love her beyond the golden voice that thrilled us. My wishes are that she feel the gratitude I have for her music, in the past, and for her honesty, in the present. (And that she know by sharing what has happened to her, she once, again, touches us all.)

SEARCHING FOR LOVE IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES

Always afraid to make that first "connection"; always missing that tremulous "hand offered" at a big party or social event; believing that "blind dates" should be restricted to those without sight--truly; I know that my checkered romantic past should be a huge cautionary tale--especially to myself.

Did I take my own karmic advice?  Of course  not! "The heart wants what the heart wants".
However, now I am truly convinced that Facebook DOES aid in our chronic planetary depression...when scrolling through tons of fabulous familial portraits (however real or photo-shopped) or hearing of an old friend's newest success (however real or imagined), one cannot help, if one is predisposed to such things, to feel badly about one's present travails.

Even as the world continues to bleed, one's personal life does take a looming stand. The reason I don't read those holiday tomes (single spaced, two plus pages) is for the same reason: my life just doesn't compute when I measure it against...well...anyone's!  I mean, clearly, I am the blackened sheep among my siblings. (However they protest and try to "include" me.) Clearly I am the ugly duckling looking over two generations, at least. (Do you know how disheartening this is?  I mean, we have the film-at-eleven footage to prove this! My sister Ann even gave me an ugly-duckling jewelry box last Christmas! As if I needed a reminder...) While I am happy for my sibs and joyous about my beautiful nieces, my own body-electric cannot help but wince.

Beyond the physical, there is the mental and emotional feeling of being "alien"...I mean, really alien...like off the planet or another dimension. I don't care for the same things as most adults in this century care for...and yet, when confronted by this fact, I realize how having a trustworthy car; a safe abode; life insurance/health insurance/ a vision and dental plan; homeowners/renters insurance; a will; a safe to put the will into; expensive jewelry of any kind; a boat bigger than a coffin; recent electronics; an IRA; or wealthy old relatives who adore me (on any side) are all comforting "tools" and add immeasurably to one's attractiveness. Yet, try as I have, for almost six decades, I just can't seem to accumulate these things--not for any length of time.  It isn't that I hold them in disdain. I just don't seem to have whatever is necessary in this life to gather them in one place for longer than a few years. Then, something huge and horrendous takes place around me and BOOM!!!! I find myself having to begin, yet again; reconstructing a new life, almost from scratch.

Now, since I don't have children of my own and my nieces are well covered on all sides, the only person I need to worry about is myself. Most of the time, I don't worry. I understand, through sobriety and two different psychotherapy stints (as well as many hundreds of therapist and psychologist and successful in a worldly way friends all willing to give advice), that I am not crazy. I don't have a death wish. I am employable and enjoyable and valuable as a friend. But, even the most hard-hearted and headed among them has been made to admit: Minns, you have terrible karma!

When I write my adventures of the heart out, nobody believes them. When I live them out, again, nobody wants to stay...I have tried the mixers, the dances, the hook-ups and set-ups and phone calls and texting and snail-mail ads and dating services. I have had a few long term relationships where I felt deep connections were made and something true was growing...but then...but then...but then...from natural disasters to unnatural ones; from religious conversions (and re-conversions and de-conversions); from divorces to marriages to re-marriages to re-commitments to run-away answers; deaths, departures, despair of an emotional or psychological or societal kind; war; visa problems; accidents; break-ups and break-downs; drugs; sobriety; booze; sobriety; twelve steps; no steps; side steps; loss of family; of property; of jobs; of clout; of savings; of pets; loss of weight; of hair; of hope; of political standing--these (and more) have conspired to change my life (romantic and otherwise) for five decades, without let up. I understand the roller coaster of Life, however, even roller coasters have some slow times.


Now, with Facebook and LinkedIn and other "new roads to connection" that are not necessarily "love connections", I find a whole new slew of folks who are "interested" in "getting together" and possibly "re-connecting"--but, with my karma, what does this mean?
 
They have seen my true photos and paintings and descriptions and blogs of what is happening to me, right now, even as we type. This has not dissuaded them. However, I remain like a cat on a thin wire: shaky, nervous, wondering which life I am about to cash in. (Can I handle yet another complication?)

So, I take myself out of the circle, again. Remove myself from the usual "lists". I press the assorted "unsubscribe" buttons and retract my "dues". I'm trying to clean up the karma and re-focus. Be the writer and painter I most am. Continue to seek out the elusive teaching job that I know I am best suited for (but seems that no one else is convinced--much like my social prospects).

I eat right; I swim and paddle; I hike around the woods, meditate and pray; keep up with world issues; speak out against horror and mean-ness and small mindedness when I find it; work on my mind (expanding my outlooks) and my Soul (never endingly). Try to understand why I'm here, now, in this place, running up against brick walls on all sides, and on all fronts--including the social--knowing I'm somewhere I've never fit--yet wondering: Have I ever fit?  (Anywhere?)  Did I sign a contract that I cannot remember and little-comprehended, before entering the third dimension of planet Earth? Is this just a cruel joke? A bad movie? A cosmic play? (Am I sleep-walking through someone else's dream?)

I thought I'd grown past being a teen...had survived my twenties and thirties...was building a "grown up real professional life" in my forties and fifties...only to have it deconstructed, pulled apart, and dissolved...fading me back to where I've never thrived...Karma. Perhaps. Or a Bigger Plan that I am simply too dense to be aware of...

No pity. I'll "man-up" (woman-up) and take my lumps. Face my punishment. Learn my lessons. Trust my Spirit. (But I wish I knew what I'm doing wrong.) Or, if, by doing what has elicited so little in the material world, I am actually doing "What Is Right"...

The search continues, even in America.