Caroling in Carroll Park

After much cajoling, I succeeded in getting a caroling party assembled--the dear son, his friends Tyler and Bryant, and myself. After a few photos around our Christmas tree--a sprig of evergreen rising triumphantly from a vase--and a little bit of alcohol at home, we headed out to spread good cheer.

Our first stop was Leonard's apartment. His Christmas lights were on, but he didn't answer the door. Next up, was the mechanic in the apartment below the laundry room. He offered us ten bucks before we even opened our mouths, but I refused. But when we sang our brandy verse of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas," he poured Malibu coconut-flavored rum into our mugs.

We proceeded down Molino Avenue to the homes of strangers. Some offered fudge and cookies. Others gave us beers. Two cute girls in a lovely craftsman-style house brought out a bottle of red wine that one of them had recently purchased in Spain. A friend of a friend in an apartment that looked like it had been the site of many a holiday party gave us vodka. Another family served Jim Beam.

A middle-aged couple and their friend joined us in "Silent Night" and even humored me by listening to my solo of "Stille Nacht." Then they gave us hugs! Yes, hugs between strangers! Does it get any better!

At Portfolio, the home of snobby baristas, we sang to anyone who would raise his gaze from his laptop screen. The ennui of the bored youth behind the counter persisted, but one patron said into her cell phone, "I'll have to call you back. There are carolers here." She hung up and joined in for a few verses. Outside we met with a merrier crowd. One young gal, who gave us all hugs when I told her of the hugs we had previously received, said of my photo-taking: "I know that will end up on a blog somewhere." And indeed it has.

One boy, maybe four years old, was our biggest fan. He stood by the door, dumbstruck, awestruck, bright-eyed, smiling. Decades from now, he will remember that night like a dim vision of Santa on the rooftop or sleigh bells as he drifts off to sleep.

As we walked and encountered pedestrians, we circled them and filled them with good cheer as well.

And lest I forget the couple with the Beemer parked out front. The woman offered us whiskey before we even asked, and when her husband/boyfriend said they had been at a party the night before and no one knew the words to an old carol, I immediately jumped in with "Here We Go A-Wassailing." That had been the song he had wanted to sing! And so the six of us sang, "We are not daily beggars/That beg from door to door/But we are neighbors' children/Who you have seen before/Love and joy come to you/And to you your wassail too/May God bless you and send you a happy new year/May God send you a happy new year."

Definitely a Christmas baby was conceived at that house last night. I could just image the woman saying, "Oh, honey, wasn't that magical!" And so would begin some magic of their own.

Anyone for Caroling?

Every December I begin my let's-go-caroling chorus. Every year I am met with nay-sayers and pooh-hoohers. What's wrong with the world? Caroling is one of the most fun things around. It's just that no one wants to give it a try.

Decades ago, years before Aaron was born, back in the days when I was a young, married woman, I cajoled my brother, Tim, and then-husband, Rod, to go caroling. Rod and I were living in Chicago at the time, and we were visiting our families in Wisconsin. Sure, it was colder than a witch's tit, but I suggested that we bring mugs and sing for brandy. This warmed the men up to the idea--somewhat.

So, off we went, knocking on the doors of strangers and singing to them--the standard fare of "Rudolph," "Come All Ye Faithful," and "The First Noel." At one house, after we had sung "Silent Night" in English, I cleared a space for myself in a dramatic flourish and gave a solo performance of "Stille Nacht"--"Silent Night" in German. Young parents and their children were aglow and gave us cookies. Older shut-ins were transported back to their childhoods, when people actually did what we were doing. And, sure enough, some people brought out the brandy.

Now we didn't ask for booze at every house. We didn't hit up the elderly or those with young kids. But at most houses, especially if the residents seemed playful, we'd close with "We Wish You a Merry Christmas." Instead of singing about the figgy pudding, I made up the verse:

"Now bring us a cup of brandy.
Now bring us a cup of brandy.
Now bring us a cup of brandy.
And a shot and a beer.
We won't go until we get some.
We won't go until we get some.
We won't go until we get some,
So bring it right here."

We laughed and held out our mugs while we swayed to and fro to the music.

One couple brought out Chivis Regal Scotch Whiskey. The good stuff. And an unopened bottle. They had received it as a gift that year and told us that they didn't drink. They poured it as if it were coffee.

Twenty years later, on Christmas Eve 2004, I made a surprise visit to Wisconsin. Now long since divorced and mother to an 18-year-old, I once again cajoled my brother and my son, too, to join me in mirth. Once again, it was colder than hell, but once again, we brought our mugs.

We met with a few sourpusses, I must admit. One girl who sat watching TV as we sang and never bothered to answer the door, though she occasionally looked at us as if we were on another channel. And, yes, there was the Jewish woman, who we hadn't known was Jewish until her neighbor informed us. She had listened patiently, but when I did my solo number, she screamed, "How dare you sing to me in German!" and slammed the door in our faces. Ouch!

Then I had a flashback to the Chivis Regal couple. I was convinced the house on the corner was theirs. (I have an uncanny memory for such details of life.) We gave it a try, and yessiree bob, same couple and same bottle of Chivis Regal. That's right--they had opened it for us 20 years ago and besides what had evaporated over those two decades, not a drop was missing. They invited us in to see their tree, told of how they had met in the Old Country, poured us stiff drinks and then refilled our mugs.

Even my cynical brother admitted that this was magical.

Two years ago, I organized a caroling party and we canvased the Rose Park neighborhood. Though I had invited several of my students, only Hector Perez shared my enthusiasm. In fact, he might have been even more nuts about caroling than me, if one can believe that. He kept saying, "Oh, Miss Nye, let's keep going." And so we did, "bringing joy to so many people," as Hector said in an effervescent moment of pure holiday bliss.

And so, this year, once again, I am looking forward to spreading joy. I told my son that he has to round up his friends. That this will be fun. And you can be damn sure it will be.

We All Have so Much

Though I live simply, I still have much more than most of the people in the world do. I have a roof over my head, a bed, food, clothes, a hot shower every morning--hooray for hot showers!--and a whole bunch of earrings.

I'm urging everyone to take stock of his or her blessings and then to rethink holiday shopping this year. Do you really need to buy another thing for friends and family members who already have so many things? Why not have a tree planted in their name instead? Or give them a pretty card that shows that you donated money to their favorite charity? Or that you sponsored a homeless family or a patient at a mental-health facility?

Holiday shopping is way out of hand. Let's all do our part to reign it in and remember that others have so little while we often have way too much.

Master Card Takes an Extra $5,000 of my Money

Let me state from the get-go that I am a rare American: I have never paid a dime in credit-card interest. I pay my bills in full and on time. There have even been years when I overpaid my Visa bill when times were good.

But, of course, that kind of customer isn't what the credit card companies want. They want people who are in debt, people they can charge Mafia-style interest. For me, I would rather live simply, buy what I need from yard sales and thrift stores, and not have debt stress.

I charge most of my expenses in order to reap the frequent-flyer miles, one or two miles for every dollar spent, you know the story. This past month I had more outlays than usual, what with an airline ticket to Wisconsin, a one-way ticket from Portland for my son, hundreds of dollars in medical and dental bills, and a bunch of business expenses.

Nevertheless, when I started getting statements from my bank that I was being charged for overdrafts, I knew something was amiss. Turns out, Capital One electronically processed a check I had sent for $1,871.11--payment in full--for $6,871.11, five grand more than I owed.

I called Capital One and got a man in India who had no authority to do anything except say he was sorry. Finally, I got his American supervisor who chastised me for not writing my numbers clearly, something I disputed. She pulled up the check and said there was a tiny pen mark at the top of the one that might have confused the data-entry person. I don't think that a tiny mark at the top of the one would have looked anywhere near a "6."

I also noted that the reason people write checks is so there is something to check the numerals against--the next line on which the check-writer fills in the amount in words. I had to repeat that several times before she understood. Then she told me that the data-entry people have to process checks so fast that they can't stop to make sure the amount is correct!

Credit-card companies are making more money than God, I told her. Why can't they pay to have the job done right? I'm sure they would still be making more money than God if they doubled their number of data-entry people.

She then said that Capital One doesn't process the checks in-house but farms them out--no doubt to India--so it has no control over how the checks are processed. I said, "You could exercise control if you wanted to. It's like if I wanted a swimming pool built in my backyard, and I contract with a firm to build the pool. The contractor sends out two guys to do the work, but I tell him I want four guys to do the job and I'll pay extra. Do you think he'd tell me, 'No, I can't do that'? You, too, could ask for more people to do the work--and to do the work right." This point went way over her head.

Finally, after an hour on the phone for something that was not my mistake, the supervisor said she would have the $5,000 wired back to my account. That was Friday morning. Yesterday afternoon I called my credit union. No transfer has yet been made. And the overdraft fees continue to arrive--six at last count.

Mature Gals with Great Attitudes

During the past few days I have spent time with two women in their 70s--Bev and Carol. The first is a long-time friend, the other a massage client. Both are amazing gals and both look great. Bev recently spurned a 50-year-old lover, a man who is a quarter of a century her junior. Carol looks like she could be in her mid-50s. So what's their secret?

The answer is that both Bev and Carol don't let things bother them, and they don't dwell on the past. I am convinced that this attitude keeps them young.

Bev has been asked at various times in her life, "Aren't you insulted by what that person said to you? Aren't you hurt by what that person did to you?" She brushes such comments off as if they were specks of dust and says, "Maybe I should be upset, but I'm not. I don't have time to be upset. I've got too many other things to do."

And indeed she does. She's juggling a few guys, besides still working as a massage therapist. She lifts weights and takes long walks at the Newport Back Bay. She's active in a few churches that run the gamut from evangelical Christian to Science of Mind. She's also fascinated with Judaism and takes classes in alternative healing. Whew!

Carol, too, is very present-oriented. She is constantly going--golfing a few times a week, walking several miles with her friends each day, volunteering, attending concerts and plays, spending time with her boyfriend. She outright admits, "I have no interest in the past."

I have a great admiration for both these ladies, who have found the secret of youth--a positive, present-oriented attitude that allows no time for wallowing over past injustices.

Whenever I find myself rehashing what someone said or did or what I said or did or didn't say or didn't do, I need to give myself a good, hard slap and say, "I don't have time for this! It'll only give me more wrinkles!"

Camper Shell Brings Sense of Security

A few days ago, my mother asked me what I am going to do when I leave Cal State in May. I had been going along, fairly satisfied with the New Agey thought that something miraculous would occur between now and spring, and I would be shown a clear, straight path to happiness, love, and abundance. But moms have a way of throwing a wrench into such thinking.

Since our conversation, I have started to feel a growing sense of dread. How am I going to support myself? (My pension from Cal State will be something like $200 a month.) Where will I rest my head? Will I be completely alone in a strange, new place?

I had always thought that certainly by now, after almost 18 years of divorced life, I would have a partner or at least a boyfriend or a lover. But, no, I'm facing another Christmas alone, my eighth in a row. It's possible that in the next five months I could meet someone wonderful who might also think I'm wonderful too, a man who would take my breath away. It's possible, but I can't bank on it.

I started fretting about isolation. I'm cut off enough as it is, here in Southern California, but in a new environment it could be years before I make any friends. Friend Heather moved to Denver not knowing anyone and within a week or two she was the most popular gal in town. But I know I'm not Heather. Will I be able to survive without my Sunday afternoon excursions with Aaron, who is sometimes the only social contact I have all week?

So, these are the kinds of fears that have crept into my consciousness since my talk with Mom.

Though I wasn't thinking of this as a means to combat these demons in my head, I did something this afternoon that I've been wanting to do for a long time--purchase a camper shell for my Tacoma. In the summer of 2006, I camped my way up the coast for a month, then met Aaron in Washington state, and he and I traveled to Wisconsin and back to So Cal together. The night before I picked him up at the Spokane airport, someone stole from the open bed of my truck the containers in which I had been storing food, clothes, medicine, toiletries, and camping equipment. That's when I started thinking about getting a shell, though it took me until today to do it.

Aaron and I are planning a trip up the coast to Portland for a week and a half following Christmas. It'll be cold and rainy, so we won't be able to sleep in the open bed of the truck like we've done in the past. We'll need the camper shell.

It's so amazing how the fears about the future that Mom placed in my skull have now dissipated. It's such a good feeling knowing that even if I am without a job and without a support system and without an apartment, I'll still have a place to sleep. That's such a comfort. I can live inside my truck if it ever comes to that, and I'll be OK.

I am always amazed when I ask people how they got to California, and they tell me of a cousin who offered them a place while they found a job or a good friend who had an extra bedroom in her apartment or her house. I take inventory of the people I know, and I don't think there's one among them who would be able to give me a place to crash while I settled into a new environment. They have kids or their places are small or it just wouldn't work for one reason or another. But I think there are a few who might let me park my Tacoma--with its spiffy camper shell--on the street in front of their abode and allow me to use the bathroom once in a while. That might just be enough.

A Lesson Learned Again and Again

I have hurt someone. I didn't mean to. I didn't want to. But I have.

I knew this was coming from the very beginning. I knew that at some point I would be the one who would do the hurting, since I am the one who is interested in friendship and the man I have hurt is interested in much more.

Last night I didn't sleep at all, disturbed by how I had hurt him. I scrutinized my thoughts and realized that they fit a common pattern for me. Whenever I have some sort of hurtful or unfortunate social interaction, I think that perhaps I am not well-suited for interactions with people, interactions of any depth, that is. Instead I should confine myself to compliments about someone's cooking or outfit and light conversation about the weather. I always seem to get in trouble if I venture any further.

I recall the image that came to me once in a dream or perhaps it was in a waking vision. It was the 1940s or maybe the '30s. I was an attractive woman who lived alone in a cute, little apartment. I said hello to everyone I encountered, the green grocer and the newspaper boy, the old woman beating her rugs on the fire escape, the good-looking man who would tip his hat when I passed by. I was pleasant with my coworkers. I always had a genuine smile on my face for anyone I might see, and that smile was there even when I was alone. I went on excursions about town, and I cooked candlelit meals for myself. I enjoyed reading in my sunlit parlor and walking my dog or teaching my parrot to talk. I seemed very happy, yet I had no lover, no friends, no contact with family. I was just floating through this world, content to be alive and not disturbing anyone. This image returned to me today. Was this me in another life? Or is this my true nature--to be alone?

I think, too, of what my enlightened-being-of-the-north-woods friend asked me in the summer of 2006 when I was visiting her in northeastern Washington: "Why do I have to interact with people?" I gave her answers such as "You can only learn certain things through interacting with people" and "You are a person, so interacting with other people will help you learn about yourself." To this she replied, "What if I don't want to learn those things?" For that I had no answer.

And yet I would love to have deep friendship and deep intimacy, but perhaps I just don't understand the ways of the world. I missed school the day that relationships, friendship, and making one's way in the world were discussed. I've just got to muddle through without the benefit of notes.

This disconnect was so strongly brought to my attention one night decades ago. I was driving on Pacific Coast Highway and encountered a police officer who was signalling with his flashlight. I thought he meant that I should continue to drive forward, whereas instead he meant for me to stop. As I passed him, he yelled and slammed his flashlight into the side of my vehicle. I was shocked. Here I thought I was doing what was asked, but instead I was doing just the opposite. How often this has happened--I am traveling along, thinking I am acting in accordance with society's norms, only to be wacked into awareness of how far afield I am.

In the current situation, I was at fault for how the hurt unfolded. I made mistakes that I will not make again. But the larger mistake of thinking that a man could be my friend is one that I have often made in the past and I suspect, unless I live as the woman in my vision, I will make again.

Never Knew Anyone Read my Blogs

My friends Heather and Alexi read my blogs, but I never knew anyone else did. Now it seems that someone has read a post about an old friend who has romantic feelings for me and sent it to him. He is insulted, and I have removed the post. I'm sorry and from now on, I won't write about anyone I know or I will dramatically change the particulars so that it is not clear about who I am speaking.

Something in my Pants

When I first started wearing the insulin pump, I put it in the black, pseudo-leather case the rep had given me and attached it to my belt or the top of my skirt. The tubing protruded from the case, and I attempted to tuck it beneath my clothes as much as possible.

I did this for a week or two until I found out about the baby-sock method. I now slip the pump sans case into a baby sock and tuck it into my undies. This works especially well when I'm wearing a skirt or a dress, as my panty hose keeps the pump in place.

When I'm wearing jeans or dress slacks, however, it's a different matter. The pump starts out at my side, placed against my hip bone. After a while--especially if I'm walking quite a bit--it slips down my panties and becomes lodged in my crotch.

Sometimes I attempt to get it back in place, and I must look like a guy grabbing at his thing. In fact, with the insulin pump riding next to my hootch, I wonder if it looks like I've got something extra in my pants.

Exercise as a Means of Giving Thanks

I am so incredibly grateful for my new lease on life. Six weeks ago, I was dying, struggling to walk a few feet, exhausted after making my bed, dreading staircases. Then suddenly--truly overnight--I had a complete turnaround. I can now walk miles with no problem and bound up stairs. I feel light and free and 20 years younger. A miracle if ever there has been one.

Because of my impaired physical condition, I had been unable to exercise much during the past few years. Sure, every once in a while, I would be able to take a walk in the woods, but eventually I would get chest pain and have to slow down. In short, I had sharply curtailed my exercise because I simply was not capable of accomplishing much of anything.

That has changed. Now I am so happy that I am in the land of the living again. I can walk! I can do household chores! I can climb stairs! Yippee! And as my way of giving thanks for being able to exercise, I AM exercising.

This morning I walked to the beach, then snaked around the quiet streets in the Rose Park district. Probably 2 1/2 miles all told.

What a fantastic feeling! I must have had a smile on my face the whole way because everyone I encountered smiled back. I was simply smiling to the world, and the world responded.

As I walked, I chanted, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you." A million times thank you.

Of course, exercise will also help me maintain this renewed health. It's all working so perfectly. I am so happy and so thankful.

As I said to my son, "The prayers you say for me every night finally reached critical mass and BAM! A miracle!" Whether it was Aaron or something I did or the concern of friends or the intercession of a passing angel, who knows. But now it is up to me to sustain the miracle through exercise and smiles.

My Mom is Introduced to the Internet, Though She Really Wanted the Oracle at Delphi

My mother is 86 years old. She grew up on a Minnesota farm and remembers when her house was wired for electricity.

For years I've been encouraging her to learn some computer skills. I have told her how much fun she could have on the Internet. She could chat with other people who have attended one-room schoolhouses. She could track down old friends. She could read the news from papers around the world. She could improve her German.

But her resistance to learning about the Web, indeed learning anything new--card games, a handicraft, her fellow seniors' names--is frustrating, so I mostly just let her be.

A few days ago, however, she and I were looking for some place to eat on Thanksgiving Eve. The only place that was open in downtown Racine, Wisc., was a coffeehouse. There we had sandwiches, and there I introduced her to the Web.

As we ate, I enticed her with: "Think of a question, Mom, any question, and I'll show you how we can find the answer on the Internet." This confused her. "A question?" she asked. (Well, I guess that was a question, right? Hmmm...) "Yes, Mom, like how many gallons of water leave the mouth of the Nile River every minute or how many one-room schoolhouses are left in America. What are you interested in finding out?"

After much prodding on my part and much confusion on hers, she finally hit upon: "Why did my brother die so young?"

Wow, of all the questions in the world, this was on her mind. "I'm sorry, Mom, but it has to be something we can actually find on the Internet."

She tried again: "Where's my grandson at this moment?" And: "What are you and I going to do tomorrow?"

Obviously, she thought she was standing before the Oracle at Delphi. "Mom, computers aren't that sophisticated yet," I said. "They can't answer such personal questions like that. It has to be something concrete and public."

She finally hit upon "How far is it to the moon?" Bingo!

After that, she got really excited. We looked up her grandson, Aaron Ziolkowski, and found a review he had written for Music Connection magazine posted on the band's Web site and a letter to the editor at Thrasher, a skateboarding magazine.

I let her type in one of her queries, but for every letter, she typed a dozen. "You'd have to develop a much lighter touch, Mom. You don't have to bang it like you do a typewriter."

This was a freak experience, to be sure. My mother has already gone back to her shell, uninterested in doing anything except take her pills and shuffle about with her walker, saying she's lived too long and making herself as helpless and weak as possible.

But for a few moments in a coffeehouse in Racine, Wisc., on Thanksgiving Eve 2007, her face was lit up to a brand-new, wired world.

Messages That Inform my Waking Life

Almost every night before dropping into sleep, I say aloud, "Dear seraphim, protect me from all interference from the astral plane and guide me directly to realms of light and love of ascended masters and angelic beings, where I will receive messages that I will recall upon waking and which will inform and guide my waking life."

Usually this has worked very well, but since last December, when I had my uterus scraped (a uterine oblation) because I was bleeding up to a pint a day, my psychic ability has diminished to nil. I hadn't made the connection before between the ground of my sexual being and psychic experiences. For example, I have not seen beings of light in my living room or out and about in the world for almost a year now, whereas I used to see them several times a day.

An intuitive healer recommended that I try nutripuncture, which is a blend of acupuncture theory and homeopathy. He prescribed yin-yang, uterine, and thyroid combinations for me, and I've been taking them for the past two weeks.

Immediately, my dreams became much more vibrant and real. And I am beginning to remember the messages upon waking, like the one this morning: "Things that you need to shout to the world, even though the world may not be listening."

I have also begun to see energy fields again, not yet full-blown beings of light, angels, some might call them, but at least energy fields. These vibrations are very clearly discernible against the backdrop of objects and persons in the "normal world."

As I have done in the past to make them glow more brightly, I send them messages of love as I look upon them, and they will certainly respond in kind by sending out stronger vibrations and enveloping me with love of their own--in time, all in good time. Much like when you smile at someone and he smiles back at you, increasing the love vibration in both of you and in the world as a whole. Why don't you give this a whirl?

Roger, a Most Remarkable Man

Roger has been my friend since Thanksgiving weekend 1990 when I met him in the ghost town he was caretaking. Recently separated from my husband, I had long wanted to explore Death Valley and the surrounding desert, and as I had no invitations for turkey dinner, I felt this was the time to do it. I spent four or five days exploring some lonesome spots, Ballarat being one of them.

Triple A marks populated towns in the same way it marks ghost towns on its maps. One never knows for certain whether one will find live souls or a few abandoned buildings when one ventures into a town marked on a Triple A map. I have often wondered if its cartographers have not revised remote sections of the California map in many decades, simply transferring the names of now-deceased burgs onto current maps.

Whatever the reason, I ended up in Ballarat on the Friday following Thanksgiving, 1990. I had long looked at my Triple A map and wondered what went on in Ballarat. This was my opportunity to find out.

On that November afternoon, I met Roger, a very quiet man who appreciated silence, so much so that he would enter abandoned mines to attain absolute stillness. He once told me that even in such an environment, someone who is used to the constant din of modern life will still hear echoes of urban noise within his head, like the sound of the ocean caught inside a conch shell. With time, though, that inner chatter dies and true silence emerges.

Roger and I exchanged addresses, and over the years, we have exchanged hundreds of letters. One of the most beautiful gifts anyone ever gave me arrived from Roger in the spring of 1991. Through a soft rain, I had bicycled home from work to find Roger's package at my doorstep. In the gentle, golden light of early evening, I opened the box to find it filled with desert plants. The smells of the sage and juniper filled the room. I was instantly transported to the desert after a rainstorm.

In the 17 years I've known Roger, he has found two wives, both of whom started out as pen pals. Roger and I, however, have maybe made physical contact only once or twice. A pat on his back. A touch to his shoulder. That sort of thing, but nothing more.

Like many men in rural areas, Roger is a jack of all trades. All about the extremely strange town of Randsburg--which bills itself as a living ghost town--are the fruits of Roger's labor. Hand-crafted weather vanes. Signs painted for the general store and for antique shops on Main Street. Tile work here. Concrete work there.

He once had a tiny house he purchased for $5,000 in Red Mountain, but his "commute" to Randsburg--a three-mile walk over the mountain to his workshop in town--became too difficult. He told me he wanted to give the house away to a deserving artist, but instead someone approached him about buying it. Never overly concerned with money, Roger probably gave the buyer a deal. He now lives in a room off his workshop, fitted with a galvanized container that doubles as a sink and a bath tub. Here is another testament to Roger's resourcefulness and simplicity, traits I greatly admire about him.

Once upon a time, Roger had two pickups from the '50s, but he sold both when he moved into town. He now drives a tractor from the year of his birth--1953--once a week to the Randsburg General Store to pick up groceries. As the store is a little more than a block away, the tractor's seven-gallon gas tank only has to be filled once a year. Aaron and I drove to Randsburg last weekend to see if Roger was OK, since I had not heard from him for many months. During that visit, Roger fired up the tractor and let Aaron and me ride it around his back lot. "This was one week's worth of gas, huh, Roger," I teased.

In all the years I've known Roger, I have only visited him six times. Otherwise, we have known each other through letters alone, as Roger doesn't have a phone or Internet service.

Though I had last seen Roger about four years ago, when Aaron and I approached him outside the building he's remodeling and living in, he was not surprised. His expression didn't change. He spoke in his slow, deliberate way, unphased. I commented on how long it had been since our last encounter, and he said, "And maybe it was only a day ago." I told him I was happy to see that he was still "on this planet." He said he was glad I was still here too.

Roger's limp is worse than I remember. I once asked him how the limp had developed, and he matter-of-factly informed me that someone had shot him in the leg, but that he deserved it and so had not had the bullet removed. As Aaron commented when I told him this, "An old-fashioned sense of justice." Indeed.

I care about my friend, and I wish he would take care of his leg. But I also admire this about him--his dedication to his principles, how he lives his life in accordance with his philosophy. He is a man of integrity. He lives by his own code, and I respect that, even though his code may not be mine.

Roger, a most remarkable man.

A Small Miracle

For almost eight years, I have been unable to sleep on my side. Prior to this, I did nothing but sleep on my side. But as I developed cardiac problems, I had to retrain my body, putting a pillow beneath my knees so that I wouldn't roll over during the night.

Ever since then, almost every night, I have attempted to sleep as I prefer to sleep--one pillow beneath my head, one sandwiched between my knees and thighs, and a third held to my chest, while sleeping on my side. And every night for the past eight years, I have only been able to hold this position for a minute or so before the pressure built up on my heart and I had to go back to the prone position. The weight of my body would press on my heart, no matter if I tried the left or the right side, making breathing uncomfortable.

These past few nights, however, I have tried the preferred position and have been amazed that, after thousands of attempts in the past years, I am now able to side-sleep as I did when I was a child and a young adult and a 30ish adult before my heart started acting up. I feel no discomfort; my heart is not constricted.

I am so grateful for this shift, so grateful that I have said "thank you" by cutting back on my heart meds. A healing is in progress, and I wish to facilitate it by offering a tangible sign of my trust in this miraculous transformation.

Feeling So Much Better!

Only nine days ago, I was on death's door--exhausted after the least exertion, water on my lungs, feeling like I was 90 years old. Then something clicked, I know not what. I cried, and then I cried some more. And then for good measure, I did some more crying. Maybe that's what did it.

I also said to anyone who might be listening--maybe an angel, maybe a spirit guide, maybe God--"I am sooooo tired of this! All of this! Do you hear me? I am so fucking tired! If you want me to do your work, I have to be able to do the work."

I informed Dr. Lin, my young, good-looking, ever-concerned internist, "I'm not saying I'm at the point of suicide yet, but I really don't know how much more of this I can take. I want to be able to do things--travel, walk, make my bed. Do you understand?"

Well, somebody must have understood, and he or she listened and did something because I am feeling several orders of magnitude better.

Over the course of my life, I have had hundreds of false turning points. My blood sugar would go down and my insulin requirement would drop, and I'd think, "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! My body is healing. Soon I'll be free of injections! Soon I'll be healthy and free!" Only to have the downward trend reverse until I was back to where I'd started.

But this is the longest sustained turnaround I've ever experienced. This time it's not my insulin requirement and blood sugar that have dropped. It's that I have energy once again. After more than three years of being unable to surf because of fatigue, anemia and shortness of breath, I feel I could take to the water again. I also feel like planning a trip--a trip in which I'd climb the stairs of cathedrals, stroll the whole day long through an enchanted city, and swim to sea grottos, while cavorting with the dolphins. I feel vibrant and alive again.

Thank God!

Classical Binge and a New Friend

In the past two weeks, I've attended two classical concerts: the first at the gorgeous Art Deco Alex Theatre in Glendale, which featured pianist super star Andre Watts, and the second at Segerstrom Hall across from South Coast Plaza. As an extra treat, I went with ladies who "know people" and so were able to secure free tickets. Alexi, via her opera singer grandmother, is friends with Andre Watts, and Diana's brother is a bass player for the Pacific Symphony.

I often listen to classical music on the radio and I have a few choice CDs. I was a member of the Southern California Early Music Society for many years and so attended medieval-music concerts in candlelit cathedrals in Los Angeles and Pasadena. But besides these two recent adventures, I have not been to a symphony performance since I was in high school.

Classical music is one of the pinnacles of Western civilization. Two Saturdays ago, I met with Andre Watts during intermission. He was a gracious man, remembering my name and introducing me to other admirers as they poured into his dressing room. After last Saturday's performance at Segerstrom Hall, Diana and I went backstage to meet with several of the musicians, all old friends and/or lovers of Diana's. To be around such accomplished professionals makes me feel as if I am at the very nexus of human aspiration over the past four or five centuries.

As Diana is a cellist, her brother plays for the Pacific Symphony and her sister plays for the LA Opera Company, I will probably be going to many more classical venues.

And Diana, in her own way, is thrilled to know a writer. She said, "I'm always around musicians. It's nice to know someone who expresses creativity through another medium."

It's interesting how life unfolds. I met Diana in January on the Blue Line. I had attended a peace demonstration in Los Angeles, and she was returning from an architectural tour. I'm not sure if I asked her about the tour first, or if she, seeing my sign, asked me about the march. Either way, we struck up a conversation and exchanged phone numbers and email addresses. Diana invited me to attend a number of events with her--the "lefties" potluck at El Dorado Park, a Shakespearean play, a lecture by an environmentalist--but I was always busy. Two weeks ago, I contacted her about a Russian choral group that is performing tonight in Costa Mesa. She said $35 was too much for her to spend, but would I like to see the Pacific Symphony for free? So last Saturday was the first time we've seen each other since that January train ride.

Tonight I'm attending the performance by the Russian choral group with another friend, Beverly, who had the $35 for a ticket.

It's so important to surround yourself with people of a creative spirit, whatever form that creativity takes. It gives me a zing down in my soul. It's as if through their music or their words or through dance or cooking or simply living a life of adventure and courage, they are touching the divine and sharing their take on the divine with the world.

Loving Emails, Solo Hugs, Lots of Crying--Strategies for Overcoming Hopelessness

After several good cries and a few messages of love from far-flung friends, I am feeling better.

And a big thank you to Tom; his new boyfriend, Ed; and Tom's parents, Tom and Gloria. Ed, who lives in a huge house that is filled with inventory from a shop he once owned, always says that if I need anything, let him know, he probably has some to spare. I told him I could use a few pots and a blender. Instead of taking from what he already has, Ed joined forces with Tom, Tom, and Gloria to purchase a nine-piece pot set and a blender. What's more, my friend Tom told me, his parents love me and have "adopted" me. This kindness and generosity out of left field overwhelmed me. I wept with gratitude when Tom carried the two big boxes containing my gifts into my apartment. As I continued to weep for joy, Tom washed the dishes that were already in the sink and the new pots set and blender too.

During these last few days of internal and externalized drama, I even showed up, unannounced and without an appointment, at the door of a social worker who counsels transplant patients and began weeping. Although she eventually steered the conversation around to anti-depressants, in the main, Karen was wonderful. I really could tell she was listening, and her eyes were filled with compassion. I said no to the drugs, that this was a temporary thing, a big hump I was going over and that I wanted to understand the pain, not medicate it away. She asked what she could do for me, and I told her I needed a hug, that no one ever hugs me and that I need physical contact. So Karen with her ample breasts wrapped her arms around me and held me for a minute or so.

I am not discounting the importance of email contact, especially with those who are not living nearby. But nothing beats old-fashioned human contact--a hug, a back rub, a hand-holding, a kiss.

So often during my decades of being alone, I have embraced myself and said aloud with a big smile, rubbing my chin against my shoulder, "Oh, Heidi, I love you. I love you so much." Or at night, lying on my back in bed, I hug my pillow and say sweet things to it, as if it were my lover or as if the words were those my lover was speaking to me. Of course, if I am really down, this just makes things worse, as I fully realize no one is there but me. But if I have not yet sunk that low, I somehow feel love filling me, as if a friend or lover really is with me, hugging me, infusing me with lovely talk. Or perhaps a passing angel stops for a moment and zings me with love.

I realize that people besides my son care about me. I know that if I died today, at least a dozen people would show up for my funeral. But those who live nearby are busy with other things in their lives, and the others live too far away to drop by for a hug. So, I just need to give myself more hugs. Just like a massage or a pedicure, it always feels better if someone else does it to you. But no matter, I accept the love that comes through emails--and that which I will supply on a more regular basis in solo hugs.

Broadcasting Illness to the World

I'm really having a hard time with the insulin pump, and this is only the test run—I’m pumping saline solution this weekend, not insulin. On Monday I meet with the diabetic nurse and the endocrinologist to program my pump so that it delivers a very low level of insulin 20 times an hour, 24 hours a day, and a much larger dose before meals. I had to remove the needle yesterday after three days of insertion. I tried to follow the directions I was given for rewinding and priming the cartridge and inserting the needle, but so many steps were missing from the guidebook that I just gave up. I disconnected myself from the pump, went to bed, and have allowed solution to dribble out of the needle and onto my futon for the last 14 hours. I’ve had more important things to do than diddle with this device. More important things like crying.

Last night I broke down and wept, something I haven’t indulged in for a very long time. And today I’ve cried every time I’ve been alone, which, of course, is the vast majority of my existence.

It’s not just that the pump signals an end to magic and miracles, the possibility that I’ll ever be free of diabetes and its complications. It’s also that I will now be broadcasting to the world that I’m a diabetic. With the pump resting on my belt or on the waistline of my skirt, it will be there for all to see. And, yes, I suppose to someone who’s paying absolutely no attention it looks like a pager, but how many pagers have tubing coming out of them?

Add to this that the only two relationships I’ve had in the 17 years since leaving my husband were with men who said they couldn’t stay with me because I have diabetes. Now on an intellectual level I agree with my dear son that they were assholes and that they were just grabbing at straws, finding any excuse to leave, and they might as well pick one that I don’t seem to be able to change. I mean, if they had said I was too heavy or my hair was the wrong color or I didn’t speak Chinese or I was a lousy surfer, those are all things I could work on. But to pick diabetes is a stroke of genius. They were saying it’s something fundamental about me, like my gender or my race.

And so now every man who may have been interested in me without the pump now will turn away. I won’t even get to tell him I’m a diabetic after a few dates. I’ll have to tell him from the moment he sees me. I’m trading delayed rejection for instantaneous rejection.

Now certainly one could reasonably say, “C’mon, Heidi, if you’ve only had two relationships in 17 years, it’s not exactly like men have been beating down your door to go out with you, even without an insulin pump. In fact, how many times in those 17 years have you even gotten to a second date? So what’s the big deal? No men currently. No men in the future. What’s the difference?”

The difference is that even though no one is interested, I’m still looking good. I’m looking as if I should/could be with a man, I’m looking like a real catch. No one may approach me, but I’m something like a beautiful, distant star. It’s the same thing with Svalbard and Pitcairn Island. I may never travel to either of these far-flung lands, but it’s sure nice knowing these exotic places are out there. So it’s true that no man has spent the night in almost eight years, but at least my body has been ready for some man to spend the night. Now, attached to a pump that stays hooked up to me through a needle and 43 inches of tubing, I feel more like a machine than a woman.

I've only known one person who has been on an insulin pump and he was in a long-term committed relationship. He and his wife weren't concerned about groping. Those with bionic partners realize they have to work around the equipment. But what about me? What about if I’m on a date—miracle of miracles in and of itself—and I feel something for the man and he feels something for me? We begin kissing and he starts feeling me up and his hand jerks the needle out of my belly or he gets tangled in the tubing. Of course, he’d run, maybe even letting me fend for a ride home.

I know some people will say the Pollyannaish thing: “If a man loves you, he won’t care that you’re a diabetic-heart patient-person with kidney disease.” We all know that’s “Hallmark” bullshit. Women are famous for taking on charity cases—disabled vets, alcoholics, convicted felons—but men demand perfection.

And someone whose pancreas isn’t functioning, whose heart is running on approximately 5 percent of capacity, and whose kidneys are biting the dust is hardly anyone’s idea of perfection.

The Healing Celebration

Once in a while, I indulge myself in the healing-celebration fantasy. In this daydream, friends and anyone and everyone who has ever cared about me gather to rejoice in the liberation of my body from pills, injections, and sickness. I am cured of diabetes, congestive heart failure, and kidney disease. I am free, free, free! And I am surrounded by scores of people who share my joy.

Georgette flies in from Florida, and Heather wings her way from Denver. Mark comes from San Francisco and Tony from Santa Barbara. Rob leaves his wife and work in Shanghai to give me a big hug. Robin, who is always struggling to make ends meet, somehow gets the money together to buy a plane ticket from Seattle. Jose pulls himself away from an endless stream of meetings and commitments. Erin brngs her baby, and Chris brings his boyfriend. Tom, who is deathly afraid of hospitals, illness, and death, is there. So are my favorite massage clients, Carol and Karen. Katherine, with whom I've traded massages for facials for well over a decade, and Sue, with whom I trade massages, are there too.

Old lovers and old flames with whom I have not corresponded in decades somehow know about my happy turn of events and show up at my doorstep, just in time for the party. Ken arrives from Tuscon and Tuyen Tran from Detroit. Naguib Akbar, the Pakistani with the beautiful doe eyes, red rose in hand, kisses my cheek. Charlie, who kissed me in a golden aspen forest outside Flagstaff, tells me he wouldn't have missed this for the world. Sean, wherever he is--surfing in Costa Rica or growing pot in Mendocino County--drops what he's doing and rushes to the gala. Even Mike rises from his grave to make an appearance.

Daphne and Alexi and Amy and Dan and Araia and Rachel and Matt are there. So are my high school friends Liz and Mary. My acupuncturist, Dr. Mai, whom I've seen at least once a week for more than four years, is forever inscrutable, but inwardly oh so pleased that I have been restored to health. Dr. Lin, the ever-kind internist, and Dr. Phan, my ever-concerned cardiologist, can't believe it, as my healing flies in the face of their medical understanding, but they, too, are happy for me.

All gather around as I ceremoniously eat a dark chocolate as a sign of my newfound freedom to enjoy a sweet without worrying about how it will increase my blood sugar and damage my organs. Everyone cheers, then closes in for kisses and hugs.

Of course, I know that if I ever was healed, very few of these people would come to my celebration. They would be too busy with work or school or with their family or other friends or with their housework. They wouldn't have the time or the interest because they wouldn't understand what this meant. For the most part, they are healthy and have been healthy all their lives, so they would not appreciate what I have gone through and what it means to be free of all this.

The only person I can be sure who would be there is my son, Aaron. He has seen me on the brink of death many times. He's been in the ambulances with me and he's watched the paramedics bring me back to life. He, like no one else, would rejoice with me. This would be celebration enough.

A Huge Change, A Major Shift in my Thinking

Since April 1972, when I was diagnosed with diabetes, I have taken injections, up to six a day. Over the course of these 35 1/2 years, I have taken in excess of 50,000 shots.

Most people cringe when they find out I take injections. Some claim they couldn't do it, even if their life depended on it. Yet I have always considered injections preferrable to an insulin pump.

A pump that delivers insulin to the body 24/7 gives the diabetic a steady stream of insulin throughout the day and night, much like a functioning pancreas. It's supposed to be much better at regulating blood sugar than injections given before meals and before bed. Yet I have always resisted getting a pump.

I felt that a pump was giving up on the idea that I would ever be healed. From an outsider's point of view, I seem to negotiate the world as does everyone else--in a logical, practical manner. But truly, I believe in magic and miracles. I have always felt, all these many years, that one day I would wake up and no longer need insulin. I would be cured. No injections ever again. No testing my blood sugar. No gloomy reports from doctors about the dire state of my kidneys and my heart. I would be free and clear, healthy and happy to the end of my days.

A pump seemed the antithesis of magic and miracles. It would be attached to my body every waking and sleeping moment through a needle and a delivery tube. For years I resisted. Now I've finally given in.

Tomorrow I meet with a rep who will show me how to wear the pump, how to inject the needle that stays in for three days at a time, how to hide the pump under my shirt or my skirt or how to clip it to my belt as if it were a pager.

I know this will be better for my health. It should prevent the dangerously low blood sugars that have sent me to the emergency room twice in the last few months and the dangerously high sugars that destroy my kidneys and my heart.

I know it's for the best, but it makes me a little sad. Perhaps I can find a way to still hold on to the magic and miracle of future healing even while wearing an insulin pump.

Making Love with the Man in the Bookstore, With a Little Help from Albinoni

I am listening to Tomaso Albinoni’s adagios as I often do in the evenings when, at home alone, I am ready for love, the kind of love the man who composed this music must surely have been very capable of giving.

In his scores, Albinoni captures both the mournfulness of the human condition and its boundless joy. (Perhaps that is what I admire about Celtic music as well.) There is an intimacy to his notes that touches me very deeply. I am filled with images of a lover slowly kissing my body and of angels gently stroking my brow. The sensual and the ethereal wrapped in one package, just as I have always dreamed that love with the man who is matched to me would be.

“Adagio in G Minor” is my favorite, and I’m not alone. It is one of the most frequently recorded pieces of Baroque music. First published in 1958, the year of my birth, it is actually a reconstruction of fragments assembled after the bombing of the Dresden State Library during World War II. Much of Albinoni’s compositions and writings were turned to ashes in the ruthless decimation of this city by Allied forces. Consequently, little is known of the personal life of the composer, save that he was married and that he was independently wealthy and so did not require the patronage of royalty or the church.

Like me, Albinoni had diabetes, from which he perished in 1751 at the age of 79.

I had not known of these two links between my life and that of the composer until just a few minutes ago, when I looked Albinoni up on wikipedia. For all the years—or has it been decades!—that I have been entranced by his adagios, I had never bothered to find out anything about the man. His music is potent enough to make me weep and simultaneously be filled with otherworldly bliss, so I had no need to know anything about the man behind the music.

Years ago, perhaps 15 years ago, I met an Albinoni lover at Borders. I was speaking with the clerk, describing to him the music I had heard and wished to acquire. I didn’t know the name of the composer, I said, but I thought his name began with an “A” and he was Italian. The clerk was clueless, but the handsome Middle-Eastern man who happened to be standing next to me, said that I must be speaking of Albinoni. He said that he could recommend a tape—yes, this was before CDs—but that he would have to check his collection at home and get back to me. The next day he faxed the title of his favorite collection to me, with the salutation: “Dear Fellow Albinoni Lover.”

Of course, I followed this man’s advice and bought “Adagios,” an Erato recording. Years later, when I no longer had a cassette player, I replaced it with the CD.

Pretty much every time I play Albinoni, I think of the man in the bookstore that somehow gets jumbled in my mind as a record store. I remember the man dressed in a white tailored shirt and tan Dockers, but that could be wrong too. What I do remember is the man’s thoughtfulness, his taking the time to send me a fax.

I know this may sound strange to all the women out there who have been lavished with gifts and thoughtfulness by the men in their lives, but such genuine kindness and giving from a man have been rare occurrences for me. Had email been in common use 15 years ago, the Middle-Eastern man and I would have continued to correspond, which might have led to a romance, and perhaps he would be here with me tonight, listening to Albinoni and kissing my body.

Damned if I Do, Damned if I Don't

I was in the emergency room yesterday, the seventh or eighth time in the last 12 months. I lose count.

I went in with chest constriction and nausea. A number of explanations were tossed about, but what was clear was that I had fluid in my lungs and this was crippling my breathing. I have had edema for the past few months. My weight sometimes fluctuates six pounds, up or down, a day.

My ankles are fat-girl ankles. My thighs are tight with water. Yet I'm also dehydrated. The water isn't going where it should be going, and it's hanging around places when it should be moving. So do I drink plenty of water or do I limit my fluid intake?

These are the kind of dilemmas I'm facing. Do I eat protein because it's good for the heart or do I abstain because it makes my kidneys work harder? Should I have a glass of dry red wine with supper because it is a natural diuretic, it stimulates circulation, and it reduces blood sugar, or do I avoid alcohol in accordance with my vegan diet?

Though my blood sugar has been well-controlled for several weeks, yesterday it was sky-high. The explanation for that was that blood sugar being out of whack is a sign from the body that something else is seriously wrong. In this case, that I had water in my lungs and was having trouble breathing. So the hospital nurses gave me multiple insulin shots--something I would have never done at home. As a result, I had a very bad insulin reaction early this morning. My blood sugar had dipped dangerously low.

Such wild swings from 600+ blood sugars to those under 50 are hard for the body to take, and so I was very dizzy this morning following the reaction--so much so that I had to hang onto walls to walk.

I really don't know what I'm supposed to do. I'm eating right. I'm getting acupuncture and EECP treatments to increase blood flow. I'm taking 16 supplements. And I've got a helluva good attitude. What's more, I frequently ask aloud to God or an angel or anyone who may be listening, "Tell me what I am to do to heal my body!"

While I'm waiting for an answer, the doctors shrug their shoulders and the alternative practitioners shake their heads.

Stood up by a Friend

Tonight I was stood up by a friend. I had received an email about live Brazilian music at a downtown club and had asked three people if they would like to join me. Two said no, one said yes. We made plans to meet at 8, and I confirmed--thrice--by leaving messages on her home phone and cell.

I got to the club about 8:15. It was just me and the bartender, so I ordered a club soda and lime. I nursed it for 40 minutes while the band members straggled in. They weren’t going to start playing for another hour, so I gazed at the flatscreen and the colored lights behind the liquor bottles, then walked out.

I go out so seldom. It’s so hard to find someone who doesn’t have a wife, husband, boyfriend, or girlfriend who is taking all his or her time. Once in a while, a single friend is available, but not very often.

I called her home and cell this morning, saying that I hope she is OK and that when she is able, give me a call to let me know she's out of the hospital or whatever prevented her from showing up or calling. Of course, it's possible that she was injured or violently ill, but I suspect she just blew me off. Or maybe someone asked her out, and she didn't think to call me. And now she's embarrassed to call.

I've been stood up so many times in my life that I was not upset. It was nice just to go out into the world and see what people with wives, husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, or--miracle of miracles—friends do on a Friday night in Long Beach.

I wandered the streets for a while after leaving the club. A salesclerk at an interior design store was very welcoming, and I’m thankful for the pleasant interchange I had with her. Sometimes we have to get from strangers what friends are not ready, willing, or able to give.

Finally, a Quiet Apartment

I’ve moved again. Yes, it’s getting to be quite a habit. This is my fourth abode since May of 2005. If I can’t get other things to shift in my life—career, finances, social life, health—at least I can pack up and change my abode.

Of the nine places I have lived in Long Beach, this is my favorite. I’m at 666 ----- Ave., Apt. 6. No satanic references please. I refuse to buy into that.

It’s a Spanish-style building with arches over the courtyard, and huge papyrus and big-leafed philodendron planted outside my front door. There’s a vanity with built-in drawers ,a mirror, and a closet between the bathroom and the bedroom. A walk-in closet is off the bedroom, and built-in benches and a table are in the kitchen. There are crystal doorknobs and a space in the living room where a Murphy bed used to be. Outside my back door I’ve arranged the rocks I’ve gathered from special places and a bunch of potted plants. I’m growing parsley and looking into what other veggies might thrive in a few hours of direct afternoon sun.

Best of all, this place is quiet. At long last, no barking dogs. No car alarms. No horn-beepers. No TV-blasters. No loud, angry people

The back of my apartment faces the back wall of a monastery. Almost every day I can hear music from the monastery floating gently over the wall and into my space. Sometimes it’s Indian chants. Sometimes it’s passionate blues, like the other afternoon when I laid face up on my bed and let “Summertime” sink into my heart.

I am so thankful that after 26 years in this city, I have finally found a place that’s right for me. As I plan to leave Long Beach following my separation from Cal State next May, in all likelihood, this place will be my last in Southern California. What better way to depart a place—or a job or a relationship, for that matter—than when one is at peace, rather than in a state of desperation, resentment, or despair. This apartment is my farewell gift from Long Beach. A gift for which I am very grateful.

No Fatted Calf

My son has returned home from a foreign land! Let us slaughter the fatted calf and invite all the villagers for a feast and a celebration!

Or perhaps just take him out for Mexican food.

Boy, how things have changed since Old Testament days. Think how many events were once public displays of joy or sorrow, but are now private, even solitary episodes. Think what this has done to the human psyche. What was once shared by all is now unknown to all but a few.

Take my son's homecoming yesterday. He returned from an 18-day trip to Europe. This was his first solo adventure, save for a three-day road trip in Northern California a few years back. He toured 27 museums, had a little romance in Paris with a French-Canadian, stayed at a hotel in the Red Light District of Amsterdam, and used his Spanish more than he ever has in So Cal. He found the French much friendlier than he had expected, and they said he was a good ambassador of the United States. He was 21 and traveling through northern France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. And he returned safely and happily to his native land. Certainly a cause for a feast and a celebration.

But I was the only one who met him at LAX. (No villages accompanied me.) He and I drove back to Long Beach and had a late dinner at Linda's Mexican restaurant. A private celebration. No fatted calf.

Giving Thanks for Small Things

The last few days I have been giving thanks for things most people take for granted. Thanks that I can walk from my apartment to my truck without stopping to rest three or four times. Thanks that I can climb a flight of stairs without gasping for breath. Thanks that I now only need three pillows beneath my head at night rather than six.

Just a week ago, I was calculating my every move, wondering if a short distance was too far, if I would be able to carry my dirty clothes to the laundry room or a bag of groceries a half block to my doorstep, if just getting dressed would leave me exhausted.

I’m not yet biking or hiking or surfing again, but at least these simple tasks are becoming less difficult.

Is it the diet of brown rice, beans, collard greens, black sesame seeds, kale, cucumbers, celery, and vinegar water? Is it the “squeeze machine” treatments I receive every morning that are supposed to force new blood vessels to form around my heart? Is it any one of the 16 supplements I’m taking? Is it the messages of reprogramming I’ve been sending my body? Every day in every way, I grow healthier, stronger, more vibrant, fully able to do all the functions my body was naturally meant to do, with every cell pulsating health, life, and vitality? Or is it that I catch myself smiling when I’m out and about in the world, for no apparent reason except that I’m at peace and everything appears beautiful to me?

I firmly believe that my body will heal itself and that I will be healthy, vibrant, and fully able to do all the little things and much, much bigger ones with ease. I close my eyes and see vitality filling every cell of my body. And so it is.

Best Left without a Name

Forgive me, Nova Scotia,
but I don’t yet know
the names of your flowers, birds, and trees.

I am still a child,
wide-eyed,
with mouth open
to catch the rain,
hair loose and wild,
giggling when it becomes tangled
by the wind.

I pass dark purple stalks
on the side of the road.
Lupines, someone told me,
but I know them as the rush of a new love,
bursting with exuberance,
shouting to all the world,
Here I am! Take notice!

When I slow my pace,
I spy tiny indigo blooms
floating above creekside ferns.
Please don’t tell me who they are.
I already know:
the nuanced underworld
of a love that is quiet in public
but seething in some locked, secret chamber
for which only two hold the key.

At night I lie face up in my cabin.
Hand held before me,
I cannot see it in the dark.
Instead, I take in the strange sounds
of some winged creature in the woods.
Here is the cry of a love gone feral,
cut loose from chains of man and woman,
what they must do,
what they may not.

On afternoons when the sun is bright,
I watch a million leaves quiver
like a lover-to-be,
trembling should I stand near.

At such moments, I feel the world embrace me,
the whole of nature my consort, my intimate.
It’s then my mind goes blank,
and names of even common objects
—rock, water, sky—
fall away.
I am in that blessed state
of no-time-no-thought
that once I knew so well,
entrained,
entwined,
deliciously spent.

But don’t ever think
I’ve given up on men.
I am forever the optimist.
Doubtless, somewhere on this continent
is a single man unafraid of making love.
Surely, some day he will appear
on my doorstep,
wildflowers in hand.
And if we are both very lucky,
he will bring me a bouquet
neither of us has need to name.

Wrights Lake, Nova Scotia
June 23, 2007

Ethan Hawke Checked Me Out

On my return to the U.S. from Nova Scotia, I spied Ethan Hawke at the Halifax airport. I was working on my laptop, and he was approximately six feet away, interacting with his wife/girlfriend and two young children. He wore his hair pirate-style in a yellow, knotted bandana. As if he were on location, he was projecting his voice. He seemed to be in hyper-parent mode, as if he were playing the role of a father, rather than relaxing and being an actual father. I simply glanced at him from time to time. One woman approached him for an autograph. He didn't even look at her and said dismissively to his son, "This woman wants me to sign her book." Over the course of the next two hours, I was in very close proximity with Mr. Hawke, but I never approached him. Instead at one point, when he was sitting in a section with only his kids for company, he caught my eye, and I gave him a reserved smile, as one might smile at anyone. A simple acknowledgement of the person's humanity. Nothing less, nothing more. On the small plane from Halifax to JFK, Mr. Hawke and his entourage sat directly behind me. On the plane to LAX, he looked at me as I passed by his first class seat. He was now in a dress shirt and sunglasses, sans bandana and children. (They apparantly had been put on another plane.) The glance he gave me was the kind a man gives a woman he is intrigued by but wants to be discreet because his significant other is in close proximity. The kind of glance that a man uses to check a woman out. But Mr. Hawke was not checking me out in the usual sense. Rather, he was intrigued with me because I treated him as a human being, not a star. Doubtless, this is not the kind of treatment he is accustomed to and perhaps he was intruiged by a woman who was not ga-ga about him. A glance can mean so much, and I have not ever had quite the experience I had with Ethan. A glance of intrigue--Who is this woman who is so calm in my presense? A touch of normalcy and quiet in my unexpected, unrehearsed, unexpectant smile. One of the more beautiful interactions I have had in a long while.

After nearly two years’ hiatus, I have returned to my cabin in the woods of Nova Scotia. This is a quick trip as I was planning to spend two weeks in August here, but I will be working for an ad agency in Irvine beginning June 25, so I left yesterday (June 13) and will return the night before I begin the ad-agency gig.

I’ve made a fire in the wood stove. I have always been a little unclear about how to tell if the damper is open. It seems a bit smoky in here, yet smoke is coming out the chimney. A few logs are putting off a lot of heat. I’ll just let them burn out and not put any more on. I don’t want to smother myself my first night here!

The glow of a fire always takes me back to Pt. Arena, because fires were the way I stayed warm. I can’t help associating them with Mike and crazy sex.

Helma, Mike’s mother, is visiting a friend in Monterey Park for a few weeks. I spent last Saturday with her, listening to her talk for six hours straight about Mike, her other kids, her deceased husband, her youth in Germany, her former job at a daycare. Oddly, I didn’t mind this one-way conversation. I really wanted to listen to all that she said. I hadn’t seen her for something like eight years.

Helma really didn’t want to say goodbye to me. She had a look on her face that said she wished Mike had stayed with me, as if by looking at me she could see an entirely different fate for Mike, one that included me but not his death more than a year ago. Also in her look was a knowing that she would never see me again, even though I had said several times that she, Aaron, and I should get together before she left. (This was before I made plans to go to Nova Scotia.) This is the same knowing that I had when I said goodbye to Mike in January of 2000. I wept so terribly, and he wondered why. He said he had never seen me so emotional about a leave-taking before. Though my mind did not yet realize it, my heart knew that I would never touch him again.

I remember Mike saying to me one night as he held me in bed that it was his wish that we’d always have a place like this. At the time, he had meant a place like his trailer in the woods, where we could be quiet, surrounded by beauty, secluded enough for him to chop wood in the nude, as he had done that afternoon. Well, he had such a place until the day he died, and I have such a place now. Strange how people get their wishes, except not in the way they ever imagined.

White, pink, magenta, and indigo lupens adorn my table, picked this afternoon along the dirt road to my cabin.

As I type this, I’m looking out the dining room window at the dense tree cover in the waning light. This particular place and this place of Nova Scotia in general are so beautiful. I am looking forward to the end of the spring semester next year when I plan to drive here and spend six months. I’d like to see this cabin in fall, winter, and spring too.

I’m looking forward to a quieter way of life, one that includes, as I heard on the radio today, schoolchildren singing to butterflies in a garden they had planted especially to attract these winged beauties and news broadcasts that profile a crime wave in the province—a thief who steals flowers from graves in a cemetery outside Halifax.

I wish the dear son were here. I would like to share this cabin with him. Other families have vacation getaways, but we never did when he was a child. Now that I do have a cabin, I would like to instill in him a sense of place, somewhere he can always come to for quiet, beauty, and nourishment. As it is, he is job-hunting, as he wants to save up enough money to go to Europe in September.

The fire is dying, the woods are getting dark, and I am tired, having been up since 6 o’clock yesterday morning. Good night, Nova Scotia. I’m so glad I have this cabin, as it was my wish too to always have a place of quiet, beauty, and sanctuary.

Feeling Like a Loser

I received a poor evaluation from my department chair. I've been teaching on and off for 20 years, and it seems I'm no good at it.

This is all very strange to me. I put in so many hours every week, grading papers, creating hand-outs, writing tests and practice tests, on and on, to the point that I'm only making about $15 an hour when every task is accounted for. I keep my office hours, and I am forever telling students that if they can't make these hours, let me know and I'll meet them at some other time.

Often students smile at me, tell me thank you, let me know how much the class has meant to them.

But then I hear from the department chair that more students come to him with complaints than come to him from all the other professors combined. How can that be? Am I really so awful and yet the students smile to my face but then stab me in the back?

This is just one more area of my life in which I really don't understand what's going on. Why aren't things working out, given my positive attitude and my hard work? What's missing?

If I'm a flop at teaching, in what other arenas am I a loser? Let me count the ways.

* Relationships--In the past year, I have had four dates.
* Money--Always a struggle, though I work my tail off.
* Health--Some days the chest pain and shortness of breath are so bad, I think I'm going to fall over and die.
* Friends--Mostly, they're busy. I had a great time last weekend at the ninth annual chick cabin getaway weekend in Green Valley Lake, but that's just once a year.
* Career--See above. I want so badly to make it to May of 2008, so that I can leave Cal State and have health insurance for the rest of my life, but the chair seems hell-bent on canning me. How tragic that would be--after teaching here for 20 years, I'd be one semester away from leaving and he'd kick me out the door, with nothing.

So, folks, I'm feeling a little down today. And I've been feeling a little down the last couple of days.

I know I'm not a loser. I know I have a lot of wonderful things to offer the world. It's just that the world doesn't seem much interested.

The Son Turns 21!

Today my son turns 21. How can this be? All I did was feed and hydrate him, and he’s grown to 6’6.” Miracle Grow indeed!

Thank you, Mr. Son, for 21 wonderful years. It’s your birthday, but I’m convinced that I’ve received the gift.

From the first time I saw you on the ultrasound film, I felt a connection. Following your birth, the alien being that you were felt a kinship with the alien being that I have always been.

As you grew and began saying the remarkable things that all young people say, I listened, unlike most parents, who are too busy fiddling with their cell phones or watching TV, or who simply dismiss their progeny’s wisdom as nonsense or lies. And so you told me about fairies—where they lived, what they did at night, and why not everyone can see them. You let me in on what had happened before you were born and about the beautiful ghost who floated down the hall in front of the bathroom. You revealed your theory of “why there is so much fighting on this planet” and how “men have arrows sticking into their hearts that make them sad, and they don’t even know they can take them out” and how the whole world is “like a piece of beef jerky, and all the people and the cars and the buildings are the pepper on the jerky.” You spoke of how you want to have a “girl child someday” because you’re a boy and you want to “learn about the girl energy.” You said that you had seen Jesus at the swimming pool and behind you in line at Disneyland. You spoke of the “shadow people” whom you saw in the corners of your eyes—“they’re not scary, they’re just there sometimes, you know.” And you pointed to George Bush Senior on a television screen and wondered, “Why is that man always lying?” But you countered that pointed realism by turning and waving to all the people in a donut shop, calling out to them, “Have a good life!” then exiting without a look back.

Throughout your two decades here, you have continued to impress me. I remember you as a preschooler, kneeling before rocks and kissing them, telling them that you remembered them from the last time you were at the Japanese Gardens. Or talking to ants or singing songs that came to you “from inside somewhere” before you dropped off to sleep or jumping about in the ocean, chanting “what a jolly good day to be a frog.”

Your insights into people and the workings of the world have become deeper and more refined with age. A few years back, I asked you what you thought of God, and your answer amazed me. I have found the world basically divides on this point: Those who have had some mystical or religious experience believe; those who have not, don’t. But you, who have seen ghosts and fairies, who have dreamed the same dreams I have on the same nights, who have seen “the other side,” did not fall into either camp. You said that beings such as angels and ghosts simply occupy different dimensions; that in no way indicates that there is some overarching force at work here. Wow, I thought, my son is truly a free-thinker. I had never before heard or read of someone take this stance. An agnostic in the noblest sense.

You are an interesting guy, to be sure. A history major who is fully grounded in the present. An optimist who sees the utter nonsense of humanity—how nothing ever changes, just one group of power-hungry people replacing another, over and over and over again. A full-on man who is the most evolved feminist I have ever encountered. A pacifist and a gentle soul who surprised me yet again last summer, when he saw a man “play-strangling” his girlfriend and said with the intensity and single-mindedness of a kamikaze pilot, “If I ever see a man hurting a woman, I’ll kill him.”

And so, as you celebrate the magical 21, knowing that all the world’s your oyster, let me be one of many who raises her glass to you today. May you continue to impress and surprise me—and all who have the pleasure of knowing you.

Dating Insecurity

Why is it that the only men who are interested in dating me are painfully insecure?

These troubled souls fall into two general categories. One: he has not been with a woman for seven years, and I am the first woman he has asked out. On a first date, he tells me about how I will meet his mother and siblings and cousins, about how he’ll take me to exotic places, about how grateful he is that I am going out with him. On and on, he tells me how playful and fun he is, yet he is stiff and dull with me. He has decided already that I am the perfect woman, the right woman for him. I am like no other woman; I am “so nice, so sweet.” All the while I’m thinking, “I can’t take on this big of a project.”

When I point out to him that this is only our first date—and, as I know, but he does not yet understand, also our last date—he becomes irritated and says that I should just go with the flow. At this point, I’m thinking, “I could be home right now, scrubbing my kitchen floor. Or arranging paper clips on my desk. Or staring at a blank wall. What was I thinking!”

Two: he has had lots of sex with lots of women, but he still needs constant reinforcement and affirmation from me—even though we have not had sex at all. He is as touchy as some women—the kind I try to avoid. A benign observation, such as “You don’t strike me as an outdoorsy guy,” becomes a huge insult. Again, I think, “I can’t take on this big of a project.”

Both types of insecure men may be very successful. They may make a lot of money. They may have fantastic business sense. But for some reason, they are tragically insecure one-on-one.

It is my own damn fault, of course. I say “yes” to a date, knowing they are not right for me. I operate under the principle that everyone should be given at least one chance, and, besides, they may surprise me and transform into an engaging, emotionally healthy, dynamic, playful men. I mean, that is in the realm of possibilities, right?

Well, I guess it’s possible. But I really need to be secure in my intuition. It has never steered me wrong yet. Every time I’ve thought, “Warning! Warning! Insecure man! Back away!” I’ve been right. It’s time to say "no" from the get-go and let these men play out their insecurities with women who are willing to take on big projects.

My First Rock Concert, My First Big Spender

This past week I experienced two “firsts”—my first rock concert and the first time a date spent more than a few bucks on me. How, you ask, did I get this far in life without experiencing both of these phenomena many times over? That is a mystery.

The Who at the Long Beach Arena. This was near-mystical experience, complete with flashing lights, crazy screens of ‘70s scenes, and what can only be called an altar, though I suspect most would say it was a stage. The much-larger-than-life images of flower children, half-naked druggies, lava lamps, and Twiggy were mesmerizing, and made me swell with pride. “I was alive during that time,” I silently chanted inside my sound-assaulted brain.

What was I doing in the ‘60s and ‘70s rather than going to rock concerts and getting high? I was “doing my own thing,” you might say—taking long walks in the woods and meadows; reading, an awful lot of reading, especially Egyptology, astronomy, and the occult; writing poems and journaling; praying, at least an hour a day; fashioning altars from flowers, grass, and other natural items; pen paling with Fut Lui in Hong Kong and Shirley Fiddell in Auckland; and cultivating mystical experiences of a non-Who sort, those arrived at through long periods of silence or simply “looking out” at the world and observing the air.

And what of the second “first”? That would be Alan, spending nearly $140 on me in one sitting—my Who ticket, a bottle of water, a hot dog, parking, and a concert T-shirt. And this was only our second date. Is this the kind of treatment other women are accustomed to? I wondered. And here I have spent my entire adult life having one-time dates with men who couldn’t even buy me a cup of coffee.

I don’t know if I’ll ever go to a rock concert again, at least not on my dime. A hundred-plus bucks is a lot of cash for a mystical experience, as I’m accustomed to getting those for free. It was fantastic, and I wouldn’t say no if anyone offered, but I can do a whole bunch of things with $140.

And Alan? In many ways we’re very different, especially on some core levels. But he’s playful—a great rarity these days, at least outside Ireland. And creative—he makes his living singing telegrams while dressed as Marilyn, Borat, or a Hooters girl. That’s clever.

Firsts are fun. I’m going to make a point of experiencing more firsts—a job that pays more than 30 grand a year, a B&B weekend with a lover, and one of my short stories published in a prominent magazine. Add to that a quiet living space—no traffic noise, no car alarms, no planes landing or taking off, no screaming neighbors. And why not go for the big time—a day of perfect health, the first in a lifetime from here on out of perfect health. Ah, now that would be a mystical experience for which I’d glad lay down 140 bucks!

Valentine's Gifts from Left Field

This Valentine’s Day three men surprised me with expressions of their love.

First, the dear son bought me a pair of earrings, though he confessed they had been a “just because” purchase. (He’s good at expressing his feelings; he’s just not too keen on making sure they adhere to a calendar.)

Then, at the end of a long, hard Feb. 13, I was greeted by a priority package tucked behind my screen door. It contained two hand-carved hearts—one of redwood, the other of heartwood—fashioned for me by my friend Roger, a reclusive “desert rat” whom I met almost 17 years ago while he was living in a ghost town south of Death Valley. Roger and I have stayed in touch all these years through snail mail and occasional surprise packages such as this. In his enclosed letter, Roger wrote that he had made two hearts because I am a “doubly special lady.”

And then, yesterday evening, on Valentine’s Day itself, friend and colleague Chris invited me out for coffee. There he surprised me with a metallic-red gift bag with bright red ribbons. “Look inside,” he cajoled. “I’m not sure I can get past the bag,” I replied, captivated by its show-stopping intensity.

Inside were ranch-dip-and-baby-carrot and peanut-butter-and-celery packages from Trader Joe’s. Chris knows my health hurdles preclude chocolate consumption, so he bought me something healthful instead. What a cutie!

Besides being my ally and personal comedian within a generally Machiavellian and humorless workplace, Chris is my good buddy. He’s a fun guy, and, God bless him, he’s real! He got a few sustained hugs for thinking of me on what has often been a challenging day.

So there we have it—love from left field. And what makes this all the more beautiful is that, unlike so many years before, when I was full of listlessness and lamentation due to my “lack” of love, this year I was nearly oblivious to all the fuss. I was at peace with my solitary existence, though, of course, I would jump at the chance of romance. But since it’s not here, I haven’t been wailing over it.

Thanks, guys, for fortifying the smile on my face. I wish you, me and everyone else a bunch of all kinds of love to make it through the rest of the year.

A Different Kind of Valentine's Day

For the past, um, let’s say 26 years, Valentine’s Day has been kind of rough. Back then, I was a freshly married woman whose husband did the freshly-married-husbandly thing of showering me with cards, roses and a romantic dinner. In short, the classic—or may I say, cliché—Valentine’s Day expression of love, affection and mass marketing.

That, unfortunately, was the last time a man with whom I was romantically involved paid any attention to Feb. 14. Sure, there was the year when my friend Rob slipped a chummy valentine under my door to cheer me up. And the year when my son, then only 10 or 11, bought the red rose that he knew my then-boyfriend would not. These were sweet gestures and much appreciated, but let’s face it: Valentine’s Day is for lovers, not friends and family.

And so each year around this time, I have gone into a funk, wondering why love—or even a cheap thrill—is so elusive. Intellectual truisms that VD is just a means for card companies and florist shops to make money have proved unsatisfying. So what! I don’t mind them cashing in if only I could hit the jackpot too.

Things are different this year, I’m happy to report. I am not feeling the dread and hopelessness that I have before during the first couple weeks of February. It’s not that I’ve “given up” or that I no longer desire a relationship. It’s just that the desperation has departed.

I still hold my pillow at night as if it were the man I would love and the man who would also love me. When I embrace my “man pillow,” I get a true surge of happiness—the pillow feels good, the covers are cozy about my body, and I’m smiling widely, light with something I know not what. There’s no longer the tears that follow from thinking that this is the closest I’ve gotten in years to a relationship.

VD is a week away, but I don’t see my mood altering as the day draws nigh. Just look at how cute I am in this picture I took just moments ago. Look at the glow in those eyes, the brightness in the air about me. If some fantastic guy can’t see the beauty here, well, I guess I’ll just have to keep beaming until someone does. Until then, I’ll let my love shine out to the world—and keep hugging that huggable man pillow.

Feeling Good

So often lately I catch myself smiling, not at any particular person or thing, but just at all that is. Or I sense that my eyes are wide open and bright, that I’m glowing, the spark of life shining out, vibrancy giving me a lightness in my step.

Some might think I’m in love. After all, it’s damn near Valentine’s Day.

And, yes, I am in love…though no one’s in love with me. I write that, not in the lovelorn way I uttered those words in 2003, when I was giddy and squishy after a man had kissed me following 15 years of waiting for him to realize I was a woman. I had asked my class to excuse my behavior and the little mistakes I was making on the board. “I’m in love, you see,” I told my students, and they giggled, pleased for me. Later, I confided in one of them, “Yes, I said I’m in love, but that doesn’t mean anyone is in love with me.” After several days, the kisser hadn’t called or e-mailed, much less sent roses. After a little bit more of this, I fell out of love too.

But what I’m currently feeling isn’t like this. It’s not like this at all. The emphasis is not on the absence of love coming my way, but that the love is non-specific, non-personal. No one loves me. Rather, all loves me. Love is coming at me from all directions.

If an outsider would take inventory of my life, he might say there’s no reason to be feeling so good.
• My health has been severely challenged lately.
• My support system is limited.
• My current job pays poorly, is often meaningless, doesn’t make use of my talents and intelligence, demands long hours, is conducted under shabby working conditions, and is plagued by passionless students, unsupportive co-workers and a back-stabbing department chair.
• My apartment is in a marginal part of town with neighbors who enjoy beeping their horns at all hours of the night.
• I have no social life beyond a coffee every month or two with a friend.

And yet when I am alone in my apartment or reading a book in a coffeehouse or walking down the street or getting my groceries, I feel good. I am ever-delighted by the beauty and peacefulness of ordinary objects and the empty air between them.

Quite often I am in my kitchen, preparing a meal or washing dishes, when I look into the adjoining living room at the desk chair in front of the computer. The chair becomes a boundary of sorts, but my vision is focused on the 20 feet or so between the chair and me. The longer I gaze at the air, the more I feel an animation of the space, or of space itself, the ground that allows things to be. I am in the presence of presence, the great I Am. I am happily drowning in the present moment.

Of course, when I am interacting with humanity, it is more difficult to maintain this presence. I’m still working on that. But in these pure moments of no-thought, love streams in.

And sometimes I am able to bring that peace into challenging situations with other humans. Sometimes. Like tonight when I received an e-mail from a friend who has moved from So Cal to pursue a new life in the idyllic Northwest. She had misinterpreted something I’d written, believing that I was judging her when I was truly expressing concern, hoping she was doing OK. Her e-mail calling me on this perceived judgment was surprising, but not unsettling, as it surely would have been a year ago or even six months ago.

I’m feeling good, but I couldn’t explain it to someone who calculates happiness by the number of one’s friends, the size of one’s paycheck, the existence of a significant other or the results of lab tests. When I’m completely in this moment, there’s no room for all of that, only room enough for what’s right here in front of me. And that includes the empty air.