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.