I am Crying With Them

      More than anything else I would like the people of Little Lake Valley as well as people all over the world, especially in the United States, to understand that the local indigenous people are not just protesting the destruction of artifacts or the eradication of several ancient village sites and burial grounds of their ancestors. They are crying over the loss of their way of life and the loss of a complete culture of relationships enjoyed for many decades between themselves and this Earth. They are heart-broken over the annihilation of their belief systems and the loss of the knowledge of their ancestors who were taken from them when thousands of fore bearers were killed or removed to boarding schools.

     This isn't just about CalTrans building a by-pass through ecologically important and sensitive wet lands, causing an imbalance to an ecosystem developed over eons of time.

     It's not just about getting around the traffic in a small town so logging or delivery trucks and tourists can get to their destinations faster.

     This is about depleting what oil reserves we have left by encouraging more usage of petroleum products and discouraging a shift into mass transportation or other methods of getting from one place to another.

     This is about complete disregard for the beauty of what has stood here and how it will have to become something else. This valley will never be the same. The natural world here will be forever changed in ways we cannot even yet imagine.

     We have been herded, like the indigenous people were herded into Round Valley, into believing progress, going faster, driving independently, seeing the world through a windshield, is a better way.

     Sit quietly and hear, if you can, the sobbing of the trees who have lost several thousands of their family members, the silence of the air because the birds have less places to land. See the number of dead bushes who could not find nourishment because the water table dropped faster than their roots could find it. Billions of gallons of water were used in the construction of the by-pass and will not be replaced with one winter of El Nino, in fact, the water may only run off into gullies and streams.

     This summer you could breathe the dust created by it being disturbed and rearranged. If your eyes were stinging, it was from the fine debris loosened into the air by heavy machinery. Water in town, even filtered, has a bite. We have been warned not to drink it out of the tap, and I concur. It is unpalatable even when I filter it again. A daily shower of water feels like tiny pangs of pain.

     What effects we will see to our town and valley and the entire ecosystem of this area are not known. Few have been able to guess at the overall changes this by-pass will bring. Proportionately few in the world are aware of our individual and collective impact on our Earth. Many do not want to slow down, get the earphones out of their ears, to remove the IPhone from in front of their faces.

     Recently, the Dalai Lama suggested we each take daily responsibility to care for our environment in response to global warming. I pray we are not too late to listen to his words.

     We need to understand the impact we have made on the flourishing of our world, globally, nationally, and locally. It is truly possible we have crippled our area, are depleting our natural resources, and will want to cry, just like those who weep for their lost villages. In the end, I believe, we may be able to do nothing but join them with their tears.

Such a Small Offering

      Thirty-five empty brown bags sat on the rectangular oak table. From cardboard boxes and plastic bags of food stuffs donated by the Good Bank and the Food Outlet store, we built lunches for 35 homeless people or destitute families in our community. The project has been in place for years, and the number of people served is growing.

      The preparers of the Saturday Lunch Program rotate each week between churches, scout troupes, and service organizations. I volunteer through the Emandal Peace Choir.

      Making and serving sandwiches with other items, however, only addresses the tip of the iceberg of this problem.

      Now that I live downtown and walk when I can to complete my errands, I am seeing more about the challenges of being homeless. Driving the car gives me no time to become aware of the hole in the fence around the broken-down house or the crawl space between the bushes near the creek. I am becoming more aware of the the hidey holes where many live and their habits during the rain or in the cold. R\Their reality is not pretty.

      A taste of what being cold means came to me this week with the failure of my wall heater to respond to the thermostat in the hall. It wouldn't come on and there was nothing I could do about it. The PG&E man came and shut it down because he couldn't figure out why the safety switch would not stop shutting down the unit. He had some theories, but he could only follow the company line and tell me that my landlady needed to get someone to run tests, replace something, or even replace the unit. Hopefully I will have a new heater on Friday.

      This means five days without my usual method of heat. If I had been on my land, I could have started a fire in the wood stove. Instead, I have three heaters going. I am lucky. I have a pile of blankets for the bed, and four walls to protect me from the wind, and a roof shielding me from the fog and rain. I am more than lucky to have an oven to turn on, two pairs of socks for my feet, plus several layers of clothes.

      Last Saturday, I thought I was doing a wondrous thing, making these peanut butter sandwiches with friends. Don't you know I congratulated myself on doing my part. But in the same reality within which the homeless and destitute survive, I did very little. For, some that bag containing a bottle of water, a packaged snack, a processed food bar, one piece of fruit, and a peanut butter sandwich was all some had for food for the weekend. The daily soup kitchen only serves during the week and then only one meal a day.

      Knowing how or why each person needing these services got to this state of affairs in their life is unessential. What becomes important to me follows three tracks of thought toward action:

1. What needs to change in our society to prevent this from happening on an ever-widening scale?
2. What local resources can I support to assist those in need in my community?
3. What can I offer in the spirit of assistance while making sure I maintain a cheerful attitude of gratitude for all I have?

Downloading an Upgrade

     When I kept my cell phone in my bra, I always knew where it was. Now, because of all the warnings regarding radiation and cancer, I have no idea where it is. If I even put it in the breast pocket of my jackets, I swear I can feel the vibration of cancer causing rays seep through the material into the flesh of my breast. If I store it in my pant's pocket, well then, a stream of radiation permeates my lower abdomen. If I keep it in my purse, lo and behold, I just know it will radiate through the plastic into my hip. So where do I keep it?

     Whether it's by accident or unconscious planning, I keep forgetting it.

     And this poses another set of problems. Because I've become reliant on instant dialing, I don't have my favorite numbers memorized. Because the cell phone has a record of my emergency numbers, I don't have them written on the proverbial piece of paper in my wallet.

     Emergency crews might know my name from my driver's license, but no one will know I have children, a mother, people who know and love me. Then there's the stray contacts of people I meet who have expertise I need. Like the woman who came to one of my book signings who offered her services as an editor for my second novel. Her email connection died at the time of the demise of my last Iphone, and the sign-up sheet from the event got lost during my last two moves.

     I keep missing phone calls because I am 'out and about' and my phone isn't. The instant conversations of texting is non-existent, and I've lost opportunities to meet someone for lunch or see a movie. Of course, I was already away from home and couldn't have joined them, but, hey, I'm whining here.

     Other problems around my forgetting my Iphone have arisen. In the doctor's office, I am forced to read magazines because everyone else is texting or playing games on theirs. One day I was so engrossed in an article, the nurse, who didn't want to wait til I finished, suggested I bring the magazine with me. In a different waiting room, I found a wonderful new recipe plus hints on making additional shelf space in my kitchen. In another situation, I was drawn into conversation with a man who wasn't holding the divine device in his hand. We had a delightful time sharing stories.

     While walking between my home and office, I find I'm smelling the air and any flower I pass. I pay attention to dogs and cats who seem to have individual observations on their current state of affairs. I am exercising my smile muscles at passerbys. I'm noting I feel better afterwards than when I walked hunched over the tiny screen to read an incoming email.

     What I've discovered is that there is life without a cell phone. It is a life of slowing down, connecting more with myself and others. My experiences have rebooted my priorities and put this instrument back into its earlier designation as a tool rather than a substitute for living.

How do Ravens know?

      When I lived with my late husband on 40 acres in the middle of the rolling hills in Northern California, Y or I would offer prayers of gratitude each morning with food we saved from our plates the day before. We would empty the food offering bowl with a thump to remove particles stuck at the bottom onto an old board on the ground next to the garden fence. As we turned away, at least one, usually two ravens would touch down behind us. If we hesitated in our step,they would dance with jitters. But after a few years, they tolerated our presence and went on about their business of checking everything we had left there.

      If I removed the fat from a chicken before or after cooking it, I would make this into an extra treat for these huge black birds. Whether I cut it into small pieces or not, they would fill their beaks and transport the fatty skin to their caches in the ground or in holes in a tree. I understand they have good memories and can retrieve their 'saves' during food-scarce times. Once, one had so much in its beak it couldn't take off so it climbed onto a rock and tried to take off again. It still couldn't get air-borne so it dropped its mouthful, ate some, packed the rest into its beak again, and was finally able to fly.

      I guess because I had read Edgar Allen Poe's poem about ravens or because they are depicted as portenders of death and disease, I assumed them to be of a serious nature. That is until one day I heard our black Labrador, Sapa, barking. This dog rarely barked, even at strangers, so when I heard her barking, then a long stretch of silence, then another bout of barking, I got curious.

      She was lying at the base of a tree looking up. Two ravens were sitting there on branches. One took flight, dropped close to her, and trailed its claws across her rump. Up Sapa jumped barking to chase the raven to a next tree while the second raven chased after her. I watched these antics and laughed at this crazy game they had designed between them.

      One time I tried to defend the food from a meandering flock of wild turkeys who had discovered the vegetable leftovers on the board. (Ravens rarely eat greens, especially broccoli.) Every morning I chased the turkeys away until I realized the ravens weren't coming to claim the offering. I waited and watched the turkeys push and shove each other to get near the small spot of food. The ravens stood at their edge until one turkey turned and noticed them. Then the others opened their circle and made space between them for the ravens to join.

      We often heard our resident ravens clucking or clicking to each other. They even cooed in spring. We watched them teach their youngsters to fly and saw them tolerate a group of noisy adolescents hang out on the land one summer.

      Several years ago, after we had returned from our summer wanderings, we noticed only one raven coming to eat. Because we had been aware of the couple, I had a feeling this one was the female. Something had happened, and she was alone. One day, she came to acknowledge the bits I had placed outside, but her behavior was unusual. She ate some then wandered the yard, ate some more then wobbled to the front of the green house. After another bite of food, she checked out the side of the garden. With the last of the food in her beak, she ambled past the front porch, dropped her mouthful in front of the steps leading to the upper driveway. She picked it up again, then hopped onto the first step only to saunter around the next and climb the path next to the stairs. She continued up the driveway, walking slowly, turning her head from side to side until she was out of my sight. She never came back.

      About a week later, another couple moved in.

      After Y passed away and I left the land, I missed my prayer and offering routine. I lived for a year in a home where I had to do my landlady's routine and really felt more than disconnected from my winged friends. Now I am returning to old habits as I have more privacy, plus I like the feeling I get when I say 'thank you' every morning.

      This morning I placed about a quarter cup of food bits onto the wooden top of an old well in my small front yard. I've been doing this off and on for two weeks. I had no expectations when I began this routine again. But wouldn't you know, as I was sitting in my office, camouflaged behind a tangle of rose bushes in front of my window, I heard a raven caw from the roof of the house in front of me. He/she spent a long time checking out the yard before swooping across the well top and picking up a bite of the food in mid-flight. How did that raven know that small bit of matter was even there?

      And how did they know so many years ago how to play with a dog? How did they learn about sharing food with other winged friends? Do they know how much I've missed their presence in my life?

      I hope they know how full my heart feels that they've found me again.

Sometimes the Internal Editor has a Point

“Rewrite it!” the brow-beating editor in my head demanded.

I balked and argued, “It’s OK as it is.”

“You’re in denial,” the same angry voice retorted, as it does every time we have an argument over my creativity.

My shoulders sagged. I didn’t want to hear this. When I’d sent the 7^th draft of the second novel in my “Sacred Bundle Series” to three readers, I had held full confidence that this was it. I had crossed all my T’s and dotted all my I’s. However, the precious sentences had fallen short of their mark.

“I didn’t care about the characters or the story until page 56, and then I was hooked. If I didn’t know you and like you, I would never have continued reading the story.”

I certainly did not care for that critique. I wondered how on earth had this book gotten through two other reading panels without anyone telling me it was boring? Or that they didn’t understand the first page. THE FIRST PAGE, for God’s sake. I had to face the fact something was wrong, but I had no idea two weeks ago what it was.

The first draft of the The Spirit Bundle(TSB)has been finished since 2007. Between working on the nine drafts of The Marriage Bundle (TMB), I have been crafting the second one. But, a lot has happened since then. I have to admit I pushed the publishing of TMB. That story had needed more work, but I wanted something of my own creativity out in the world right after my husband passed away.

Now I was facing a huge dilemma. Did I ignore the suggestions of three well-meaning friends who had labored for a month or more over the second creation? So I took it to one other person, just one page, the first one, and asked him what he thought. He didn’t pull any punches either, but he had a few specific suggestions. Then I saw it.

I was writing with my head. The work was fashioned from a formula and the expressions were trite. I wondered, “When had my writing voice changed?”

Reviewing the events of my life, I remembered what had been happening since 2007 when I’d finished that first draft. Many changes. Many losses. Too many to keep my heart open and survive the pain of losing all those I loved, losing the community to which my husband and I had belonged. I’d been guided to sell my hand-built home on 40 acres and, after 33 years of living off the grid and in the woods,  I tried to survive in someone’s back bedroom for a year.

Now I am settled in my own little bungalow and living a life where I am expanding my social circle and embracing meaningful work.

During the week of all these questions, I attended several local events which added to the pressure of rethinking how I was approaching my writing, as well as my life.

I saw “Etty”, a one woman, one act play, presenting the journal writings of a 27 year-old Jewess who lived in Amsterdam between 1939 and 1941. This is before she is transported by cattle car to Auschwitz. Despite the terror and anger, she holds forth with love for those who are destroying her way of life. I cried that night for many reasons.

The next evening I sat with six other women around a circle of six men who were willing to voice their concerns and challenges about growing older and old. It was a circle of intimacy that broke down another door to my feelings and offered me a way to view people with a different level of compassion. I spent another night of tears.

Then there was the foot-stomping joy of the Celtic band where I felt so much a part of the Willits community.  On Saturday, I experienced the profound entertainment and increased understanding brought by watching the Museum Road Show.  This event chronicled the writings and stories of individuals who had helped to develop Mendocino County. There were stories from an older local Native man through the eyes of his granddaughter, a woman setting off from Iowa with their loaded wagon train plus livestock. She and her family arrived in Potter Valley with only the clothes on their backs. The story of Black Bart came alive in song and dance. The actors showed how the Civil War had been fought here in California. There was so much more in those stories of that evening’s entertainment. Everything I experienced that week was filled with authenticity and feeling.

Somewhere in the middle of all these shows, I found the courage to look at my own work again. Without the blinders on, I saw where I had forgotten to give my main characters their hearts.

I rewrote the first page and handed it to my harshest critic. He read it and grinned from ear to ear. “You nailed it. You hooked me.”

           Now I can do the eighth edit of The Spirit Bundle with much more confidence and enthusiasm. Now I feel my heart is back on line.

Thinking about Aging Again!

Aging isn’t a game to be played.

It isn’t a volcano to be capped or a river to be dammed. It can’t be exercised away or ‘botoxed’ into oblivion.

Growing older is a day by day process of keeping aware of the changes, those shifts in perspective as well as the slowing of the mind and body. Emotions even dance with less drama.

And the Spirit? The Spirit soars when I give it space and time to merge into my every day experience.

What seems to last, for me, is the humor.

I can laugh at myself these days when I am by myself, not just when I’m retelling a story of misadventure or miscommunication.

Do I miss anything of youth? Not much!

Certainly not the pain and anxiety of all the firsts: first tooth, first bra, first period, first drink, first dance, first kiss, first sexual tumble, first husband, first baby, first call from the police, first car accident, and on and on.

If I miss anything at all, it is of the early wonder when every single thing was new.

But, I can get that back, by slowing down and taking each thing in as if I have never seen or experienced it before.

Aging doesn’t mean shutting down or being shut away.

It can mean expanding and continually being present for old and new experiences alike.

Aging means wrinkles at the edges of smiles, saying hello to all the cats and dogs on the street, wearing makeup or a clown’s nose, donning sweats to the post office or concert clothes.

Aging means I can recreate myself or value my ‘oldering’ model.

There is a freedom now, and I relish it. There are advantages, and I’m opening to every perk of aging as I come to recognize each one.