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.