A More Encompassing View of Motherhood

On this Mother's Day, my hope is that all women and their individual decisions regarding children will be honored and respected. Mothering and motherhood manifest in so many ways that go well beyond the narrow view of giving physical birth.

The woman who lovingly cares for animals or for her garden, the one who brings in homemade baked goods for her coworkers, the gal who remembers her friends' birthdays with cards and calls, the woman who has a deep connection with nature or who works for peace and justice or is a counselor, a therapist, a doctor, a nurse, an acupuncturist, a teacher, or a massage therapist--all these women manifest the loving, nurturing qualities of a good mother.

I'm sure that today many women who do not have children are feeling down. As I have often felt on Valentine's Day, they feel that everyone else but them has been invited to a huge party. Just as the unloved (at least in a romantic sense) are uninvited to the Valentine's Day party, childless women are left out of the Mother's Day celebrations, especially after their own mothers have died. Up until that time, the focus is on the women who gave birth to them, but once they're gone, the focus then shifts to themselves.

Of course, some women are happy with their decision not to have children, but others may have wanted children but never found the right person with whom to have them or were physically unable to conceive. To these women and to society as a whole, I say, Expand your notion of motherhood.

The world could certainly do with more nurturing, caring, loving, attending, healing, helping, guiding, and nourishing. And not simply from biological mothers but from everyone, female and male, of child-bearing years or not. Just think how dramatically life on this planet would change if we all went out into the world beaming love at the world as a mother beams love at her child. And if we cared about each person we met with the concern and consideration that a mother gives to her child.

If each one of us acted as good mothers every day, I can't see how we would ever tolerate the destruction of the rainforests or the drumbeat to war or the imprisonment of the innocent or the torture of the never-brought-to-trial. Also, like a mother, we would insist on punishment and correction if the world strayed. If we looked at banksters, for example, as a mother would look at a child who has committed serious wrongs, we would not allow them to continue their evil work. We would insist that they take a time-out or we'd take away all their toys and privileges. Wouldn't that be fantastic--a time-out from unchecked greed and the ungodly wealthy deprived of their toys and privileges! Now that's the kind of mothering banksters need!

So Many of my Female Friends Are Childless

As I was going through my phone list today, searching for friends to whom I could wish a happy Mother's Day, I realized that somewhere around 90 percent of my female friends don't have children. This would not be so remarkable if they were in their teens or twenties, but they're in their late 40s to late 70s.

The rate of childlessness among my friends is much higher than the norm, which now stands at 20 percent for women aged 40-44. According to a June 2010 Pew Research Center study, this is double the rate in 1970, when only one in 10 women beyond child-bearing years was childless. Granted, this study only concerns itself with biological mothers, not adoptive or stepmothers. One does not have to physically give birth to a child to be a mother, but this study only looked at those who did give birth.

As is as to be expected, women with at least a bachelor's degree are more likely to be childless than those with no college degree. For more educated women, the rate of childlessness rises from one in five overall to one in four. White women are more likely to be childless, but rates of childlessness are rising among blacks and Latinas.

One would think that a key reason for increasing rates of childlessness is society's greater tolerance of women who either cannot or choose not to have children. Surprisingly, this is not the case. According to the Pew report, although "about half the public -- 46% in a 2009 Pew Research Center poll -- say it makes no difference one way or the other that a growing share of women do not ever have children, Ssill, a notable share of Americans -- 38% in that 2009 survey -- say this trend is bad for society, an increase from 29% in a 2007 Pew Research survey."

Once again, we are a divided society. Nearly half seem to say it's no one's business but the woman's and her partner's, while almost as many feel childlessness is wrong. I am sorry that so many people feel it is their business to judge another's life path. What a wonderful day it will be when everyone will feel free to fully and completely pursue their own inner vision of their destiny, with or without children.

Paint Your Heart Out

I'm healthy enough to begin volunteering again. Today was my first time back with the meetup.com volunteer group with which I've helped serve breakfast to the homeless, cared for trees in a regional park, and taken a hike with the blind. Today I did some painting for two low-income elderly women through an organization called Paint Your Heart Out.


I arrived at the mobile home park about 8 a.m., the appointed meeting time. I drove about but could only find a group from Target, which was also involved in the Paint Your Heart Out event. I finally located one of the homes that the meetup group was to paint and knocked on the door. A delightful Italian woman--the 90-year-old by the name of Toni--answered the door and invited me in, then made a cup of coffee for me.

Toni's story is typical of many seniors. They bought their houses years ago when prices were cheap and have paid them off, but their living expenses are barely covered by Social Security. Medicare doesn't pay the full bill, so they have hundreds of dollars of uncovered medical expenses each month. In a mobile home park, they may own the home itself outright, but they have to pay a maintenance fee, in Toni's case, it's $700/month, what I consider quite high. So to make a long story short, though she's living in a decent place in a decent neighborhood, she has no money for anything other than food, taxes, medical bills, and car expenses. The last time she had a crew come out and do the painting that we did today, she had to pay $500. So she was very grateful for our help and served us homemade chocolate cupcakes for dessert. (Pizza was provided free of charge to volunteers by a local pizza place.)

I did most of my work, however, at the home of an equally cute 79-year-old named Sonya. She did not interact with us as much as Toni did, though she too was grateful and pleasant. Minthu (pronounced minn tu), a Vietnamese woman about my age, worked alongside me at Sonya's mobile home. We hosed down the outside of her home, then primed her back railing and painted it the same color as her home, a light peach. John, Adrian, and Wiseman, the organizer, painted the eaves on both homes.

Sonya had a shelf that must have been sitting outside for decades. It was covered in dirt. She asked that we paint it. A few of us had a go at cleaning it. I even used the power setting on the garden hose. All to no avail. We left that job undone.

Since I have to be careful about dust and contaminants, I wore a mask the entire day except while eating lunch or taking a water break. I don't want to do anything to damage Pinkie, my new kidney.

At one point during the day, John and I drove to another location to help a Starbucks work group. They were at a hoarder's house, cutting down a bouganvilla bush that had overtaken one side of the house. John and I went with the woman of the house into the backyard and attempted to hide our horror at what we saw. Piles of newspaper that had been left outside for years. Mountains of empty plastic bottles. Machinery that may have worked some time in the past but were now missing multiple parts and had been rusted through and through. Too many odd things for my mind to fully grasp with such a brief look. We politely told the woman that we didn't have the equipment to do the job right now. Through the windows, we could see that stuff was piled to the ceiling. Hoarding is a not-uncommon disorder in America.

I really like the people who volunteer for these meetup events. They tend to be young and enthusiastic. I like their energy. I encourage all to get involved with their communities. It's a far better way to save the world than getting involved with politics. Isn't that the truth!

Whom Would I Love to Meet?

The Dalai Lama was in Long Beach this past weekend. My dear neighbor and friend bought a ticket for me to attend his talk. On the day of the event, he had a sore throat and had to cancel. Later my friend, who had been a key volunteer in facilitating his stay in Long Beach, had been given a last-minute invitation to see the Dalai Lama for a group blessing. She either arrived too late or wasn't sure where to go, but in any event, she missed. out. As the Dalai Lama is to her like Jesus is to many Christians, this was a big disappointment.

All this made me wonder: Who would I feel bad about not meeting if the opportunity arose? I couldn't come up with anyone. Simply shaking hands or saying hello doesn't interest me. If, however, the person had time to have a good conversation over a cup of coffee, well, then I could think of a lot of people I'd like to chat with. But simply being in the same room holds little appeal.

When I gave the subject some more thought, I realized that the only being I would really hate to miss is an ET. That's right, if someone called me right now and said, "Heidi, hurry over to the football field. A huge flying saucer is going to land, and they want you to come on board and spend a few days," and I missed that opportunity, I'd really be bummed.

Nightmares Not Scary

For the last decade or so, nightmares have not scared me. Whereas when I was a child or young adult, I frequently had nightmares, I now rarely do. But when I do, they do not frighten me.

In the past few years, I've had dreams of ghosts, ghouls, pursuit by demons and murderers, dark forces lurking in abandoned buildings and near-brushes with death. But each time, I felt no fear. It is as if I am simply observing, just as one would observe a beautiful sunset, a curious dog, or an inert pile of garbage. I sometimes wake up, but I am not sweating, my heart is not pounding, and I don't pull the sheets over my head to "protect" me from the Boogie Man. I just wake up, think, "Wasn't that something!" and drop back to sleep. No problem.

A few weeks ago, I dreamed that I had gotten somehow involved with a criminal gang of hillbillies, not that I ever realized there were such things as hillbilly gangs. The hillbillies' rivals were a crime syndicate of well-dressed, sophisticated, young Iranian women in traditional dress. They had an apartment that overlooked the hillbilly hide-out, and so they peered out their second-story windows at us.

One of the hillbilly gals was pregnant--or was she? She was feigning pregnancy but actually had a tummy full of stolen cash--cash that had been taken perhaps from the Iranians. Though I wasn't involved in any criminal activity, I agreed to drive the "pregnant" woman and her fiance to the hospital, where a doctor was to perform surgery and remove the cash.  I witnessed the surgery, which actually took place at a small motel, rather than a hospital. The whole business was quite sloppy and brutal, but the patient was in fairly good condition when she and her fiance entered the back of the van that I drove.

As we were exiting the motel parking lot, a hired gun for the Iranians (I assumed) stood in front of the van and fired three shots, all three of which were direct hits, the final one to my head. The action then stopped, and the dream took place inside my consciousness. I thought, "I must remain perfectly still so he'll believe that I am dead." That's when I woke up. The closest I've ever come to dying in a dream. But I was not at all scared. I found it fascinating from an intellectual standpoint, that's all.

Osama Brought to Judgment, Not Justice

Osama bin Laden is supposedly dead. Hmmm... Interesting that his body was tossed out to sea. Convenient, isn't it? Reminds me of the cleanup jobs at Oklahoma City and 9/11. Get rid of the evidence as soon as possbile.

For the record, I am sure that bin Laden had something to do with 9/11, so I don't believe he's a good guy. If you want to read a really detailed and insightful book about 9/11, I suggest Michael Ruppert's 600-page, 1,000-footnote "Crossing the Rubicon: The Decline of the American Empire at the End of the Age of Oil." There's a much stronger case to be made against former Vice President Dick Cheney as the mastermind of 9/11 than there is against Osama bin Laden.

I listened to what little coverage of the assassination that I could handle. I found it ironic that commentators talked of the innocents who died on 9/11, but they made no mention of the innocents within the bin Laden compound, specifically, the women who allegedly were used as human shields.

I found it disturbing how often journalists said bin Laden had been "brought to justice." I always thought this meant that someone stands trial and is either convicted and sentenced or found innocent and allowed to go free. But I guess that, too, is changing. Now "brought to justice" means that the government determines your guilt and blows you away without a trial. Is this a new precedent?

On "Bloomberg Market Minute" the reporter said that the markets had gotten a boost with the news that Obama was dead, but then went back down because he's old news and is not all that important to give the stock market a lasting boost. Again, strange to hear a man's death discussed in terms of a temporary asset. I wonder if, at this very moment, Wall Street banksters are wondering, "Whose death would push the market up or down, in our favor, of course?"

The simple truth is that, like Manuel Noriega and Saddham Hussein, Osama bin Laden outlived his usefulness and had to be silenced by prison or death. If the guy would have been captured and put on trial, just imagine what secrets he would have divulged. I seriously can't see him saying to the judge and jury, "You're right. It was 19 of my men, armed with box cutters, who foiled the entire U.S. military forces, intelligence agencies, and air transportation system." In the event of a real Osama trial that was open to the public, we'd all be calling for Dick Cheney to "be brought to justice."

Article About Kidney Donor Chain

The following article was written by a young woman who contacted me via this blog. Though I twice offered to talk with her about my experience, she didn't call.

Two corrections: I am a former journalism, not English, professor. My neighbor Janet took the photo, not me. She should receive the credit. Other than this, Gabrielle did a very good job of discussing the process.
I had queried several publications about my experience, but none wanted a first-person piece, so I'm glad that our story got out anyway.

Local Woman Saves Lives Through Kidney Donation Chain


by Gabrielle Moreira

Ventura County Star

Posted April 29, 2011 at 9:16 p.m., updated April 29, 2011 at 9:16 p.m.

.This story is contributed by a member of the Ventura community and is neither endorsed nor affiliated with Ventura County Star

www.heidisheart.blogspot.com - permission from Heidi



Brandie Pabustan (sitting) with Heidi (standing) during their recovery at the UCLA Medical Center.



Brandie Pabustan was just a few days away from donating one of her kidneys to her husband, Conrad, when doctors called off the surgery.



Brandie’s blood type made her a good match for Conrad and her great health made her an ideal candidate to be a donor.



But it came as an unwelcome surprise when doctors told them during their final blood test that Conrad’s disease-fighting antibodies had started attacking Brandie’s blood, making it all but impossible to move forward with the operation.



“We walked out of there thinking, ‘Great we’re back at square one,’” said Brandie, 35, of Newbury Park.



Brandie then learned about the Kidney Exchange Program at the UCLA Medical Center that would still allow her to help someone and find her husband a new kidney.



The relatively new program searches through the National Kidney Registry, which is the largest registry of its kind in the country, to find matches for the recipient and the donor. A donor is given a match by a recipient who has a friend or family member willing to donate on the patient’s behalf. This process creates a life-saving chain of donors and medically compatible kidney recipients.



The Kidney Exchange program was created in Ohio by Michael Rees, a professor at the University of Toledo. UCLA began its program in 2007 and, to date, has completed about 50 exchanges. Dr. Jeffery Veale, the program’s director, was the first doctor to perform these kidney chains in the west.



“One-third of people are in Brandie and Conrad’s situation, where they have someone willing to donate a kidney, but they’re incompatible.” says Veale. “The great potential of this program is that we’re able to reduce the people on the [deceased donor] waiting list and expand the living donor pool by 33 percent.”



Before Conrad, now 35, received his kidney, he was on a costly and draining process called dialysis that replicates the functions of a healthy kidney. He also was waiting on the “deceased donor list” where kidneys are harvested from cadavers, and the average wait time is eight to 10 years, depending on the donor’s blood type.



“It’s tiring after a while. Your entire life is basically on hold. In order to travel you have to schedule something months in advance at a dialysis center,” said Brandie, who recently experienced the pitfalls of traveling with someone on dialysis. Late last year, she and Conrad had their wedding in Vegas and had to schedule the entire event around his treatments.



Brandie knew that the dialysis was taking a toll on her husband, especially on days before his treatment. She’d find him tired and not feeling like himself. She knew he needed a transplant as soon as possible and ignored his requests to drop the idea. He was worried about her health and she wanted him to get healthy.



“My main concern was if I’d be able to get pregnant. Doctor’s said, ‘No Problem.’” she said. “Then I asked, ‘What if I get cancer?’ and they again said, ‘No problem. Just be healthy, don’t get crazy, don’t eat badly, and don’t play any contact sports’ – which I don’t do anyways.”



With minimal risks involved and a healthy pregnancy still possible, Brandie and Conrad enrolled in the exchange program and began a series of physical, medical and psychiatric tests to evaluate her overall health.



“You have to be extremely healthy. They run a battery of tests on you.” she said. “Regardless of the outcome, I was going to help him.”



Before long she received a call from the medical center about a match for Conrad and a recipient. Brandie’s kidney recipient, only known by her first name, Heidi, is a retired English university professor who received dialysis at the UCLA center and enrolled in the program with her neighbor, who donated on her behalf.



In December 2010, Brandie prepared for her surgery while Conrad was at UCLA undergoing his kidney transplant. His new organ was coming from a man named Albert Scholemer of Pittsburg, PA, who wasn’t donating on anyone’s behalf and simply wanted to save another person’s life.



Two days before, Brandie had started a liquid diet and now, with only hours before her surgery, drank two bottles of citrate magnesium, a saline laxative, to completely clean out her system.



The day of surgery she checked into the medical center and received a laparoscopic surgery that requires several small incisions to allow for a shorter hospital stay and recovery period. For most patients, their hospital stay is 24 to 48 hours, with a recovery period of six to eight weeks. This wasn’t the case for Brandie.



After the anesthesia began to wear off, she felt a throbbing pain from the left side of her back through the lower half of her abdomen and had to be placed on an I.V.



“They didn’t want to put me on an I.V. so that I could go home the next day, but my stomach was empty and I couldn’t take down any of the Vicodin they gave me,” she recalled. “I was throwing it all up.”



Her stay at the hospital was about five days and her recovery period took about seven to eight weeks. Heidi and her neighbor visited Brandie when she was in the hospital and thanked her for donating her kidney. Heidi’s neighbor continued the donor chain by giving one of her kidneys to a recipient on the east coast.



While live donations are a more efficient and safer way to help a person with kidney disease, the average kidney lasts 18 years because there are no “perfect matches,” unless patients have a healthy identical twin willing to donate. When asked how he feels about the chance of another transplant, Conrad simply replied, “This was my second surgery – I’m used to it.”



Brandie hopes that the program and her story will encourage others going through similar situations to participate in live donations so people with kidney disease can experience a longer and more fulfilling life.



“You can miss out on so much,” Brandie said. “Just having a normal life – being able to eat, drink, or do whatever you want.”



This story is contributed by a member of the Ventura community and is neither endorsed nor affiliated with Ventura County Star.

Permitting the Tree its Treeness

Today as you go about your life, be aware of the people, places, and things that you are seeing. Awareness in and of itself will elevate your spirits.

I remember so clearly when I began to really see things, not simply look at them and label them as "tree," "pretty." "yellow," or any of the thousands of labels we all have. Of course, my mind is not completely still, but it is a whole lot better at simply apprehending without labeling and judging than it previously was.

That moment that I remember so clearly took place in the large, grassy area on the upper campus of Cal State Long Beach. I had just attended Dr. Francisco Peccorini's metaphysics class. He was big on "Being." As when I read the trippy writings of Martin Heidegger on time and being, I also felt a little stoned after leaving Dr. Peccorini's class.

To take in this mind-expanding lecture, I sat and simply looked at a tree, without labeling it "tree" or "beautiful" or "big" or "sun-dappled." I simply saw it as a manifestation of Being. Something definitely shifted. Everything appeared lighter, brighter, and infused with meaning.

A few years later, Dr. Peccorini was assassinated on his way to a political rally in San Salvador. In my opinion, his metaphysics and spirituality did not mesh with his politics. The former was loving and embracing, while the latter was elitist and exclusionary. Of Italian heritage, Dr. Peccorini had been born to a wealthy family in El Salvador. That had shaped his politics.

Still, I remembered Dr. Peccorini for the catalyst he had been in my own spiritual development. And for this I am eternally grateful.

To commemorate his life and what he had meant to me, I wrote the following poem for his memorial service. For inspiration, I recalled those moments of awareness while truly seeing a tree.


For Dr. Francisco Peccorini, Assassinated in San Salvador,

March 15, 1989




How fondly I remember metaphysics with you!


How taken I was with your god,


an ocean to drown in without regrets,


a shy sender quietly bestowing meaning on things


which otherwise would cease to exist.

After your lectures, I would sit alone


and gaze at an acacia in the courtyard,


sinking my self into it,


its green a summons to life


like the water which bathes potentiality in the womb.


No internal dialogue was necessary


to give these moments sense.


It was great plenty to permit the tree its treeness,


to allow my self the vast, unarticulated home

of space and time in which to grow.






Perhaps in death


we awaken to the dreams of this life


given width, height, depth and breath.


Instead of the inebriation of abstract thought,


we touch, smell and taste


those things which before were only felt


in the bright recesses of the mind,


in the dark expanses of the soul.


I think of you in death encountering Being head on,


without words to erect barriers,


without the world to cloud your vision.

The Beauty Next Door

In my ongoing mission to get people to see the beauty that is always near at hand, I offer these photos of the orchids on my next-door neighbors' front porch.

Rasputin's Dear Friend Tigger

Last night Rasputin's dear friend Tigger spent the night. In the morning, Rasputin and Tigger spent part of the day with Tigger's human companions, Tom and Darrell. I went a bit nuts photographing their cuteness. Here are some of the best shots.

The Green Feeling*

Since I was a young child, I have been deeply affected by green living things. I sense a presence eminating from them, a quiet transcendance.  Though I can also see this in animals and people, it is far easier to perceive it in plants, as they are as close to pure being-ness as this world seems to get.

People  are busy creating images of themselves that they project onto the world and back into themselves until they believe the image is the reality. They are caught up in doing and lose sight of being completely at peace in the here and now. Animals, to the extent that they are tainted by human interaction, also have affectations and neuroses, though usually not as severe as humans.

Plants, especially trees, are great teachers.  The wind blows, they move. They don't resist, they don't brace themselves in fear. Leaves touch gently in a breeze, and then as easily separate again--no resistance at contact, no pain at loss. Instead, I get such a strong sense of playfulness, elegance, and wonderment watching their dance.

This sense of the vibrant, universal life force playing out before me in dappled sunlight or the bright face of a flower or rustling leaves is ever-present whenever I step outside, but only if I am not in a hurry and my mind is not engaged elsewhere. It also helps to be alone, since humans generally fill space and time with conversation, which distracts from what is in front of them.

The day before yesterday, I took a long, leisurely walk with Rasputin at El Dorado Park, a large regional park in northeast Long Beach. At one point, I sat on a picnic table and gazed at the trees around me. I experienced an especially wonderful "green feeling."
 
Most often, the green feeling brings with it a profound understanding and appreciation of beauty, wonder, and joy. But sometimes this feeling is heightened to the level of unconditional love, as if the entire natural world is whispering, "You are loved." Unfortunately, most people rush about, not even aware of the beauty, except perhaps in an intellectual way, commenting to themselves or outloud, "Isn't that beautiful!" But few actually experience the beauty without internal or external commentary. Fewer still see this stirring of love and vibrancy, this dynamism of the world buzzing with life.
 

To be clear, I don't mean that I literally hear the trees talking to me. It is something that is way beyond words. A knowing-ness that all is right in the world, however it may seem, because in that moment of pure connection with the trees or the flowers or the sunlight, only this beauty exists. The human-made dramas and horrors are not present in the tree, the flowers, or the sunlight, so during that moment, they do not exist. They are ephemera.
 
The green feeling has sustained me throughout my life. It is as if the entire natural world is simultaneously my best friend and a trillion friends, just as a single tree is also thousands of leaves cavorting in a breeze. Once again, the green feeling lifted my spirits. Though the conditions that prompted last week's tears are still present, I have cried myself out. I again feel at peace.

Two young kids, a brother and sister, must have felt a "green connection" too, as I watched them jump from the top of a picnic table and grab a tree branch, then gleefully swing from it. It is so rare to see children playing without some sort of device. Just having fun with what's right in front of them. But if anything can take them away from video games and cell phones, by God, it's a tree!

* I took these photos at El Dorado Park under some gorgeous trees.

The Ideal Conditions for Compassion*

Modern society is not geared to deliver compassion. It's not that the lack of compassion in urban America is news to me, only that I recently realized that the conditions that make for genuine compassion are lacking. I came to this awareness a few nights ago during a good, long sob.

I spent a great deal of my childhood and early and mid adulthood crying whenever I was by myself. During the past decade or so, that has not been the case. Besides the trail of unseen tears I've left during the past week, I can't remember the last time I cried on my own behalf. I frequently cry when I see photos of misery or read of violence, but I rarely cry over my own life anymore. This week was an exception.

I won't go into the details of my existential Angst--my German readers can relate. I'll only say that I didn't know to whom I could turn. Most of my friends live far away, making it impossible for them to give a hug or a hand hold. Many live close by, but I see them only twice or thrice a year, if that. It seems rather presumptuous to call someone with a sob story if I only see or speak with him or her so rarely. I don't want them to think that the only contact with me is a downer. (Of course, I have done that anyway, but I now feel that's being selfish.) Other friends have too much on their plate, either work-wise, family-wise,  financially, or emotionally. And some are intellectual buddies, not people who are comfortable bearing their souls to me or having me bear mine to them.


They are all good people; it's just that the conditions in this society are not conducive to compassion. People are busy. They're stressed. They have very little time for themselves and their immediate family or loved ones, much less for friends. Like traffic noise, this state of affairs is not any one person's fault. It is simply the way things are.

So there I was, hugging my pillow for comfort and talking aloud to who-knows-who. At some point in my sob fest, I turned my emotions off so that my intellect could make an analysis. I turned on my bedroom light, grabbed the notebook I keep on my dresser for just such late-night insights, and began writing a list of the ideal conditions for compassion:

* Luxuriousness of time--Neither the sobber or the compassionate one is pressed for time. The former does not have to quickly spill her guts because either she or her confessor must soon rush off to do something else.

* Shared experiences.--Ideally, someone with chronic illness would speak with someone else who has a chronic illness. Likewise, someone who has been without relationship for many years probably will not be well-served by someone who has been in a long-term, happy relatioship and has never known chronic loneliness.

* Ongoing face-to-face contact.--Ideally, someone you see on a daily or at least a weekly basis. Someone who knows your life, who knows you.

* No interruptions, intrusions, or distractions--Cell phones off.

* A quiet place.

* Privacy--This is not a conversation that should be overheard by anyone, aquaintances or strangers.

* Mindfulness and the ability to really listen--The confessor gives his or her full attention to the person in pain. No thinking about what needs to be done that night or what happened yesterday.

* Selflessness--A concentration on the one who is hurting, not an opportunity to deflect the conversation away from the sobber and to oneself or one's own experiences, unless they are particularly germane and do not pull the conversation away from the feelings and experiences of the confessee. For example, if a friend tells you that she has cancer, don't tell her you know how she feels because you stubbed your toe.

* A deep sense of the individual and of the universal, of one's mortality and one's immortality--This is rarely achieved, but when it is, the experience is unmistakable and indelible. You are listening to this person's particular challenges, but you simultaneously have a strong sense that these challenges and this person are an archetype for the sick, the betrayed, the depressed, the forgotten, etc. You also see this person as a finite being and as a part of something magnificient and eternal. If you and the other achieve this symbiosis, you will recognize it as something very close to falling in love, only you are falling into the great heart of being not into the arms of one person.


Looking over this list, you can see that very rarely are these conditions present when someone in our rush-rush, consumer-oriented society is in pain. But perhaps by keeping this list in mind the next time someone who is hurting crosses our path, we will remember to slow down, be completely present, and provide a safe, inviting place for the person to cry. Listening with one's full being is afterall the greatest gift you can ever give someone. And you may just receive in return the greatest gift you have ever received--a glimpse of eternity in the other's eyes.

* The photos posted here are ones I took in my neighbor's front yard.

Iranians are my Biggest Fans

Very interesting to note that during the past few days, more Iranians have visited this blog than anyone else. More Iranians than Germans. More Iranians than Americans.

I sure wish visitors would post comments. It would be interesting to know what you're interested in and about the subjects you agree or disagree with me.

Tax Day

April 15. Tax day. Also my son's 25th birthday.

Tax day is always unsettling for me. If my government were doing only upright and decent things with the money I send it, I would be fine with my contribution. But we all know that's not what's going on.

We're the biggest war economy in the history of the planet. It is such a travesty that my tax dollars are spent on killing Iraqi, Afghan, Pakistani, Palestinian, and Libyan civilians. Actually, why stop with civilians--I we don't have any business killing anyone.

How wonderful it would be to live in a country that had no military at all, or a very small one. Then the tax money could be spent on creating the best education and healthcare systems in the world, complete with rigorous foreign language, art, music, science, math, and literature programs for all and with acupuncture, massage, and herbal medicine thrown in with conventional treatment. How marvelous if money were going to support the work of artists, dancers, poets, novelists, craftspeople, scientists, and visionaries. Wouldn't it be grand to have hefty budgets for our national parks, for wildlife studies and conservation, and for programs to bring children into contact with nature?

And what would it be like if no American went hungry and none had to sleep on the street or in an alley? What if all our elderly were honored with a decent standard of living, instead of being threatened with Republican Paul Ryan's plan to end Medicare as we know it and replace it with a fixed monthly amount for seniors to buy their own health insurance! C'mon, no one wants to cover seniors and the disabled; that's why we have Medicare. Ryan's plan is a blueprint to help seniors die quickly, as most of them would without adequate or any medical coverage.

What an amazing country this would be if our government put people first, not corporations. The vast majority of our legislators--both Democrat and Republican--are so corrupted by money in the political system that they care far more for so-called defense contractors, Big Oil, and Big Pharma than they do for any of their non-wealthy constituents.

Basically, this is what my tax dollars are doing:
1) making the U.S. more hated around the world;
2) lining the pockets of the already rich;
3) giving more and more power to corporations;
4) making the average American poorer;
5) making Americans dumber;
6) creating a police state that imprisons the people who footed the bill; and
7) making the world less safe, less harmonious, more polluted, more dysfunctional.

I'm sure I'm missing a few things, but that's enough for now.

And to counteract this evil, yes, that's the word, each person needs to go out into the world knowing to her very core that the people of this world are more powerful than the elite who seem to have the upper hand. The people are waking up, and slowly but surely the smoke screen that Americans have been living under is being lifted. More and more average Joes are coming to know the truth about their government. And it isn't pretty.

I look forward to the day when my tax dollars will go for life-affirming, health-giving, hope-inspiring, people-empowering projects.

P.S. The three photos shown in this post are from my 2005 three-month solo camping trip across the country. These particular shots are from Arizona and New Mexico.

Internet on the Fritz

Ever since I disconnected my Internet service and land line from Verizon, my neighbors' Internet connection has been down. So for the last week I have been plugging into the library's or a coffeehouse's connection. That's why I have not posted much lately. Hopefully, tomorrow my neighbors will get their Internet connection restored and we'll all be back in business.

The End of my IRS Saga

Those of you who have been reading my blog for at least the past four months know that the IRS sent me a bill for $18,419 in back taxes and penalties acrued on my mother's 2008 return.

As stated in my previous post, I was not disturbed, as I had just received the gift of life--a new kidney. Anything else was unimportant. I was alive, and at least as of this writing, the IRS is not allowed to take taxpayers' organs in payment. This matter would either be resolved or I'd pay the debt little by little for the rest of my days.

A careful review of my records showed that the IRS had made a mistake. I sent a rebuttal to the appropriate authorities. After 10 weeks, the IRS responded with a reduced demand: $363. This didn't seem right either, so I looked harder at the records and asked an accountant for her opinion. Turns out I only owe $6. No sense fighting that, so I sent a check off on Sunday.

To think of the manpower involved in getting this $6 from me. I'm sure that the IRS spent at least 20 hours in this pursuit. At, let's say, $50/hour, when one includes the government worker's benefits and the contribution to her retirement, that brings the government's cost to $1,000.

The IRS's personnel should be rather tasked with going after the big offenders--large corporations that currently pay nothing in taxes and even get enormous tax credits. GE, General Electric, is a prime example. The largest corporation in the U.S., which posted $14.2 billion in profits last year, not only paid no taxes but claimed a $3.2 billion tax credit. Surely, an outfit like that should receive the scrutiny of at least a few IRS auditors. But no. Only the small fry, the common man and woman, are under the gun at the IRS.

To make the situation even more ludicrous, House Republicans would like to cut $600 million from the IRS's budget. This is ironic for a party that is interested in deficit reduction, as every dollar that the IRS spends, it reaps $10 in retrieved tax money. Even the conservative Fox News reports this data.

Of course, like everyone else in this country, and I'm sure everyone else throughout history in every country, I am not fond of the tax man. I truly hate supporting war, violence, and the suppression of democracy throughout the world with my tax dollars.

I wish that each citizen could fill out a form on his or her tax return as to how his or her taxes should be spent. I'd give mine to things like the national parks, the arts, and the care of the less fortunate. I wouldn't give a penny of my money to so-called defense, so-called intelligence, or so-called security. Now other citizens might decide they didn't give a hoot for the national park system or for the arts, but they were gung-ho for the military and the CIA. Those folks could vote their taxes that way. This would be true democracy. A line-item veto of those programs you deemed worthless or immoral, and a line-item endorsement of those programs you deemed worthwhile and life-affirming. That would certainly show the government what the citizens thought of our so-called leaders' priorities.

But if anyone should pay taxes it's the corporations and the super-rich who own the corporations. They have benefitted the most from what the government has provided--public education so that workers are prepared to toil in their businesses, and roads and bridges and the rest of the infrastructure that gets their goods to market, and military operations to keep corporation-friendly dictators in power, to name a few. Why the Average Joe and Average Mary should foot the bill when so many of the wealthy get off scot-free is a question that is surely being asked more and more often these days. A question that if sufficiently inflamed could transform society.

Some Days I Forget I Had a Transplant

I am feeling so good that some days I forget I ever had a kidney transplant--and not that long ago. A week from today it'll be four months.

Sure, I still feel the metal rod in my left leg with every step I take, but usually it is not enough to make me stop walking. And, yes, I still feel chest constriction and a sense of heaviness, but I've lived with that for so long that I rarely take note of it unless it becomes egregious.

But in general, I have energy for what I want to do. And of course my attitude is sunny, which helps a great deal.

Here is a photo of me, beaming to beat the sun, taken about a week ago in my kitchen.

My apartment has but one bedroom, so my son sleeps in the carpeted breakfast nook beside the kitchen. You can see his lamp, end table, and bed. And if your eyes are really sharp, you can see three of many gnomes that pepper the apartment. At one time I knew the German word for "gnome." Perhaps it's Schwarge.

I Should Write in German

Many days I see that more Germans have visited my blog than have Americans. Wow, that's pretty darn interesting. And so, for my German friends, I will write a little in German, just for you.

And to those of you who don't read German, you're not missing anything juicy. I'm merely inquiring as to some finer points of grammar.

Guten Tag, meine deutschen Freunden. Ich habe Fragen fuer Sie.

* Eins, mein Worterbuch hat kein "Spuelbecken," nur "Spuele." Was ist das Wort fuer "sink"--Spuelbecken oder Spuel?

* Zwei, warum haben Nummern keine adjectiven Endungen? Zum Beispiel, Mann sagt, "Ich habe rote Haar," aber er sagt nicht, "Ich habe viere Haare." Warum nicht?

* Drei, wann muss Mann  ß schrieben und wann muss Mann ss schreiben? Ich habe andere Dinge in anderen Buechern gesehen. Zum Beispiel, warum schriebt Mann "weiß" und "Wasser"? Was ist die Regel?

Danke. Bitte, antworten Sie.

Saying "No" to the Beast

On Sunday night, a helicopter was circling overhead, as has happened so often during the past 20 years. When my son was young, I frequently called the police department to complain. I was always told that they were necessary for police business. I never believed this. I would tell the officer that I was looking out my window as we were talking and nothing was going on in the park below, the park they were supposedly buzzing because of "gang activity." The officer would then tell me that this surveillance was for my own safety--words that should be a tip-off for any citizen that this is not for your safety and that there are other nefarious motives at play. I would usually tell the officer that I would prefer to take my chances with the supposed "bad guys" and get a good night's sleep.

(Consider microchips as an example of something that is touted as "for your safety" and is completely antithetical to your safety, your privacy, and your freedom. Microchips were introduced as a way to locate runaway pets. Who wouldn't want to find one's dearly loved Bowser? When I adopted Rasputin from the pound, I wasn't even told until after the fact that he had been chipped. Of course, if the authorities can find your pet when it's lost, they can certainly locate it when it's not lost--and with you by its side. Microchipping a pet is a means of locating its owner.

(Years ago, the alternative press--though of course not the mainstream press--gave coverage to servicemen who refused to be microchipped. The military had said that chipping would be a way of identifying dead soldiers on the battlefield. Some servicepeople were skeptical. Initial reports of the Oklahoma City bombing said that Timothy McVeigh had complained about the microchipping. Of course, you can put a lot of things on a chip that the recipient may not be comfortable with and may be completely unaware of. Does the Manchurian Candidate ring any bells?

(Then the idea was floated that children and the elderly should be chipped, again, for their safety. You know how children, albeit unsupervised, are always running off, and how senile grandma is a wanderer. Don't you want them to be safe?)

I have read enough about the Orwellian-named Department of Homeland Security to know that a great deal of its funding has gone directly to local and state police. Basically, the federalization of law enforcement nationwide. Instead of focusing on protecting Long Beach citizens and businesses, the LBPD, like police forces around the country, diverts manpower and machinery into doing the bidding of the Feds. I strongly object to this and so I voice my objections, as I did recently.

Once the clerk at the department's internal affairs division, which handles complaints, found out I had questions about Homeland Security, she transferred me to her supervisor, Sgt. Klein. To his credit, he was polite and calm.  I told him that I can understand the use of helicopters if there is a shoot-out or a robbery in progress or something major like that, but I am opposed to police overstepping their bounds, buzzing neighborhoods for no reason. I asked him to check the records and see what was occuring between 11:45 p.m. and 12:30 a.m. in my neighborhood. He couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. Precisely why there should not have been a helicopter overhead, I said.

I said that the ocean is only six or seven blocks away. Why can't helicopters hover over the ocean between calls? Sgt. Klein claimed that doing so would put them too far away from the action, if they were needed. That is a ridiculous answer, as a helicopter, I'm sure, can travel the distance of six blocks in a few seconds.

I asked about Homeland Security money and if police are surveilling citizens rather than ensuring community safety. I asked him what percentage of the department's operating budget is from Homeland Security. He chuckled and said he couldn't answer that question. Couldn't, wouldn't, or shouldn't? That was unclear.

I again stated that I said I was OK with "legitimate police work" but was opposed to harrassment and surveillance of citizens. I mentioned the incident I had had with two LBPD officers in 2002. They had come to my door to intimidate me because I had a poster in my front window that showed a peace sign and the words "War is not the answer." That sort of harrassment of peace activists has continued under the Obama regime.

Sgt. Klein suggested I bring my concerns to a city council meeting. I wasn't expecting resolution of the matter, only a voicing of my disapproval.

I encourage other citizens to complain to their police departments and other government agencies when their rights and their tax money are abused. The people have power. We the people certainly outnumber the "rulers." Every single citizen can make a difference, can increase people power, by exercising that power. Make a call. Write a letter. Protest. Run for office as an honest and upright candidate. Every such action helps to return power to the citizens, where it belongs.

Those Darn Little People!

Whether you care to admit it or not, most of us have had "little people experiences." You know, the kind that just make no earthly sense. For example, you KNOW you placed the concert tickets in your wallet, but they're not there. You empty out your wallet, you search through your entire apartment, you involve your family or your roommates in your drama. All to no avail. Then you go for a bicycle ride or get a good night's sleep and when you check again, shaazam! there they are in your wallet, just where you left them. These are little people experiences.

One of my most dramatic little people experiences occurred in late 1999 in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysis. I was traveling with Titi, the daughter of my friend Truc. Titi and I had wanted to travel to Vietnam, because she speaks the language, but we could not get a ticket during the Christmas holidays, so we went to Malaysia and Thailand instead. At the time, I had not yet switched over to the insulin pump I now wear but was instead taking up to six insulin injections a day, using one-time-use disposable syringes.

Titi and I were traveling light, and I was carrying only a Jansport knapsack, the size that many junior high and high school boys use as book bags. One main zipped pouch and a small zipped pouch suitable for pens and pencils. In other words, not a lot of space and only two compartments.

My first night in Kuala Lumpur, I went through my gear, arranging things for the next morning. To my horror, I only had a few syringes, whereas I needed about 60 for my entire stay. I emptied the backpack and went through my meager possessions. Sure enough, I only had a few syringes, enough to last me through noon the next day. I paced around a bit, then again looked through my backpack. No luck. I must have repeated this exercise a half dozen times.

Finally, I figured that I was in the capital city of a nation in which many people spoke English. Surely, I would be able to talk a pharmacist into selling me syringes. This was not the end of the world. I laid down for a night of much-needed rest.

In the morning I got ready to tell Titi that sightseeing was out for the day, as we would have to go syringe-hunting. Before I did so, however, I looked in my backpack one last time. The syringes were there, at least 60 of them. Those mischievious little people really had me going! They were probably in the shadows giggling, so pleased with themselves for getting my blood pressure up.

A nextdoor neighbor, a woman who has throat cancer and must speak with the aid of a wand held to her throat, had a little people experience last week. She told me on Friday morning that she had lost her talking device and wondered if I could make a call on her behalf that afternoon. In the morning, I drove her to a longtime friend's memorial service. Around 2:30 she asked me to make the call. I made several calls, ferreting out information on how to secure a replacement device. The company was going to charge her $599 plus tax and shipping, or about $700. That was way too much for her to spend. I found a state agency that would replace it for free, but the office was only open until 6 and was located a 45-minute drive away, plus I had to write a letter describing the situation and print the letter since my neighbor does not have a printer.

During this time, my neighbor, let's call her Aggie, was hyper, distraught, and frantic. She was writing furiously on her slate with magic marker and tapping me insistently on my arm, though I had already attended to what she wanted. After an hour and a half of this frenetic behavior, I calmly told Aggie that I couldn't take any more of it, that she needed to sit down and calm down, that she needn't worry. I would cancel my 5:30 appointment, write and print the letter, get directions, and drive her to and from the state office. She'd have a new device within two hours, but she had to relax. Aggie started crying. I told her everything was going to work out fine. I'd leave and come back when I'd written the letter.

When I returned, Aggie was in much better shape. I drove her to Santa Ana, we were seen almost immediately, she got the device, the clerk helped her adjust the settings, and I drove her home. I let her out in front of her house so she wouldn't have to walk very far, and I drove to the end of the block, where there was a parking space. It's then that I saw her talking device on the passenger seat. I rang her doorbell and handed it to her. Aggie was shocked. She was holding the replacement in her hands. I said the old one must have been in her purse and slipped out on the ride home. Aggie said she'd emptied her purse and it hadn't been there. I said, "Oh, well, now you've got a backup."

But, you see, this is exactly how the little people operate. As soon as Aggie calmed down, the little people thought, "Well, we'll have a little more fun at her expense. Afterall, she was much too upset. We'll keep her device for a little while longer and then return it." The calming down and the returning of the item have never been simultaneous, at least in my experience.

But I always have to smile at these little people experiences. I get as much fun out of laughing at their trickery as they do out of laughing at my undue concern over mere material possessions! The next time you are beset by leprechauns, pixies, gnomes, faeries, or whatever you call them from wherever you're from, remember: Don't take yourself--and your things--so damn seriously!