Truth or Consequences

     I took a pre-dawn walk in the hills of Las Cruces while my sleepy friends were nestled in their beds. The desert chill was not as brisk. Walking uphill at 3800 ft. is a little challenging but I became acclimated quickly. The sun rising over the Organ Pipe mountains was spectacular.  Chirping birds sang sweetly to me as I hiked higher into the desert. Stark beauty greeted me at every turn. It was a perfect morning to do a silent meditation. My morning walking meditation was on the New Moon in Aries, contemplating the message of this moon: a choice between diving into the future or getting run over by it. Unequivocally, it feels like a hit and run.

     Whether I like it or not, I am at a crossroads. The universe is clearly indicating its intent by asking me to make a radical decision: leave my increasingly abysmal west coast life or take a leap of faith elsewhere. FYI: the older one gets, the harder it is to leap. But unlike others straddled by mortgages and family, I have nothing holding me in place but myself. What would I be leaving behind? I would say goodbye to a very political yet financially secure Public Health job, fraught with nepotism, dysfunctional leadership, and contentious conflicts, in a densely populated city for which I have never really cared. My original intention was to stay only a few years. Seventeen year later, I can say that I have not gained much personal fulfillment, only a better job experiences to add to my already impressive resume.  What will I gain by leaving? I’ll have a second chance, a new start, a smaller community, closer friends, and river fishing. Work-wise I may not fare as well, but I will define myself by my personal life instead of my career (which is coming to an end soon anyway). This seems like a no brainer, but as Pavlov experiments proved, there is nothing more powerful than anxiety.

     Yesterday morning my friend and I went to a town one hour north of here called Truth or Consequences (aka T or C), for a soak in their natural mineral baths. I can’t think of a more appropriate named place to go to mull over my internalized conflicts, other than the road to perdition.  BYW: we’ll also be going past a historically deadly area called Jornado del Muerto (English translation: the Journey of Death). Though Jornado del Muerto is a better known for where Sir Richard Branson’s boondoggle Spaceport is located (you’d think his public relations people would have chosen a less controversially named location for a millionaire’s rocket ride), it is also seemed to symbolize for my state of dread. On the way there, my friend and I discussed the pros and cons of moving to Cruces. I could easily do it on my pension alone, but would need another job to supplement social security. My girlfriend, of course, would like me to be closer to her.

    Truth or Consequences is a dusty small town that looks like the last rose of summer. Ted Turner recently bought the local spa fueling speculation that the town might have an economic resurgence when Branson’s Spaceport is up and running. I personally can’t imagine someone with a $300,000 to burn on a space ride wanting to stay in a town better known for meth. Branson’s first rocket crashed landed without being found in the Jornado del Muerto, financially instilling investor panic and lending itself to the conclusion that he may be a better con artist than an architect of space travel. Delays in the Spaceport’s launch schedule have caused ire in the whole state, as the taxpayers are the biggest financial backer of this fiasco. This August, Mr. Branson has pledged he and his children will be going on the inaugural flight. Whether he is desperate for investor confidence or just plain crazy, one wonders if he somehow missed the literal translation of Jornado del Muerto.

    The mineral baths we soaked in were right on the Rio Grande River. It was scenic and relaxing. Since this is a public pool, we soaked and conversed with other women there from all over New Mexico. One in particular, a nurse educator from Western New Mexico University (WNMU) in Silver City (a town an hour and a half northwest of Las Cruces), was very chatty with me. She told me how WNMU is starting women’s and children’s clinic soon. This has made them realize the need for the best practices on immunizations, blood borne pathogens, STDs, etc. Being from one of the largest public health facilities on the west coast, she asked if I would consult with her and her staff to help secure more resources in these areas. Since rural public health is an interest of mine, I agreed. This lovely nurse educator was thrilled by the prospect of someone from a well reputed public health center being a resource to their new venture. She remarked what an amazing coincidence it was to meet me-she spontaneously decided at the last minute to take a mineral bath at T or C on her way back to Silver City. For her, meeting me was something of a divine appointment. To me, it seemed as if the wheel of karma is pushing me to New Mexico.

This New Moon in Aries is offering me messages of transformation by envisioning a new future. The question is no longer if I will leap but when.

New Moon in Aries

     On March 30^th at exactly 11:44am we will have a second New Moon, this time in the fiery sign of pioneering Aries. It may be the most important New Moon of the year as it will amplify an astrological t-square pushing us to take risks. What is a t-square? “A T-square is formed when there are two planets in opposition and one planet square to the opposition. Once again, T-squares are likely to be either cardinal, fixed or mutable. The planet at the apex, which squares both ends of the opposition, functions as the catalyst, mediating between the planets in opposition. This is an open, unstable, stressful aspect pattern but, like all aspects in the 'two' series, it is often extremely effective and dynamic.”

    Why is this so significant? This New Moon’s power will be in asking us to courageously examine manifesting change, acting creatively, and envisioning a new future for ourselves.  I like this quote for the New Moon in Aries: “It takes courage to leave the familiar, to step into the unknown, and dive so deeply into density that you risk forgetting where you came from.” Are you ready for a quantum leap?

     I will be spending this New Moon leaping in New Mexico. My leap will ask me to dive into such density, I am anticipating the risk of forgetting. The t-square tug of this New Moon in a fiery sign will shine a light on new beginnings and to do so with an Aries pioneering spirit. Coming from Midwestern pioneer stock, can I forget my present circumstances to forge a new life elsewhere?

    It is ironic that the message of this New Moon message is about envisioning and manifesting change. It is preceding my imminent eye surgery which will physically and symbolically remove what has been obstructing my vision. The last time I had this surgery on my other eye last July, the consequences also impacted me psychologically. I did not like what I saw. My new vision made me confront my own unhappiness with where I live, what I do for a living, with whom I associate, and why I have no sense of belonging. It ignited a series of changes (mostly for the better) which eviscerated my comfortable solitude forcing me to interact with the world instead of hiding from it. In ten days I will have 20/20 vision for the first time in decades. How will 20/20 vision affect me?
    "It is only when we are suspended in mid-air with no landing in sight, that we force our wings to unravel and begin our flight . As we fly, we still may not know where we are going. But the miracle is in the unfolding of the wings. You may not know where you are going, but you know so long as you spread your wings, the winds will carry you." -C. Joy Bell

I Only Have Eyes For You

      Today I am going on one of the hottest dates I have had all year. I will prepare by pulling out my finest clothes, dotting my body with my best perfume, and putting on my flashiest jewelry. Truth be told, it’s not so much of a date as it is a doctor’s appointment. In my fantasies, it is still going to be exciting. I have a secret crush on my suave ophthalmologist. Reading this one might suspect I am experiencing extreme sensory deprivation, spring fever, or am bi-polar to be so infatuated. I do not care. You don’t know Dr. R: he is an exceptional surgeon and is totally unaware how handsome he is. His dark Italian looks turn me on. The fact he is oblivious to this makes him even more attractive. Alas, he is all business-I have never given him the slightest inkling of my turgid desires. This makes my secret crush even sweeter.

     I met Dr. R last May when I was referred to him thinking I might be experiencing a retinal detachment. When he walked into the room, he took my breath away. How could one woman be so lucky to have such manliness gaze intently into her eyes? After the examination he diagnosed my symptoms as something more benign but informed me I had a significant cataract in my right eye he could remove. He could have told me I needed a heart transplant and I would have readily signed up for it. So, last July he set me up for surgery.

    The last surgery I had was an emergency appendectomy when I was thirteen. The surgeon who operated on then me told me l narrowly escaped the clutches of death that day. One would think I would be fairly anxious about surgery again after this. After all, cataract surgery involves being awake with minimum sedation while the surgeon cuts into one’s eye. Surprisingly, I was so smitten with Dr. R, I had no compunctions.

    The day of the surgery a friend dropped me off to the surgical center. Everyone there was not only professional but quite comical. My first interaction was with the pre-op nurse who informed me I would soon be getting a combination of Fentanyl and Midazolam for sedation. Somehow we got into a discussion about Fentanyl. This reminded me of a famous murder case here involving a speed freak coroner’s assistant killing her husband with Fentanyl patches because she wanted to carry on with another coroner in her office with whom she was having an affair. When I brought this up to my pre-op nurse, we laughed hysterically about coroners becoming murderers, what a great drug Fentanyl is, and our mutual interest in serial killers. Suddenly, I became the surgical suite’s newest comedienne. Next in line for my attention was the anesthesiologist-he looked like Santa Claus. He assured me he would be giving me the right amount of sedation, so I would not be panicky during the surgery. I told him I was incredibly tolerant of opiates and requested he be liberal in dosing, as I could handle whatever he gave me. He laughed. Once the sedation was administered I became even more disinhibited making me even more hilarious. The surgical suite staff said that, hands down, I was the funniest patient they had ever operated on there. They told me they could hardly wait for me to return for surgery on my next cataract.

    The surgery itself went off without a hitch. Dr. R expertly walked me through the whole process. The thought of having someone invade your body, especially with the eye, while awake is just plain unnerving. However, the great sedation they gave me made me think I was going on a carnival ride. The surgery itself only took about twenty minutes. After it was done, I turned to Dr. R and said, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?” He just shook his head laughing.

    After this surgery, I was so impressed with Dr. R, his staff, and the surgical team that I wrote all of them and my health plan thank you notes for their incredible professionalism and the restoration of my sight. One can never take for granted the effort it took for this to come off without even a single misstep. I am profoundly grateful to all of them.

    Today I return for my pre-op for my second cataract surgery. Dr. R will be deadpan serious with me and I will enjoy his manly good looks. I have fantasized Dr. R secretly has a crush on me as he fast tracked my surgery, which usually takes six weeks, for next week. He doesn’t fool me with his cool professional detachment. Ah, the joys of infatuation.

Paying Off Karmic Debt

      Debt is not just financial, it can also be karmic. “Karma refers to the energy created as a result of your actions and relationships during your current and past lives. Karmic debt means that something negative happened in the past that must be addressed in the present or the future before you can continue to enjoy your life fully.”  Not quite. Not all karma is formed from negative circumstances. Some of us experience good karma. I like this definition better: “It is said that all the action-reaction-responses that we experience in life are from the force our karmic debt accumulations (karma quotient). These are said to include the results of all activities that one does in any state, whether in knowledge, ignorance, or by chance, accident or otherwise. In other words all work, activity or energy debts are karmic (action) debts. This necessarily means that to balance out the accumulations of action-reaction, the individual consciousness needs to 'reincarnate' since the results of the actions cannot balance out in one lifetime.”

      Lately I have been doing an accounting of my karmic debts. For about a year I have been experiencing tough losses due to actions such as abandonment, rejection, and death. My accumulation of karmic debt is reaching critical mass. There have been too many good-byes and not enough hellos. To be fair, I have had my share of good karma too, but it has been fleeting. How much karmic debt does it take before I can file for karmic bankruptcy?

     Maybe I should just take out a karmic loan. If I do this, I wonder what will be asked for collateral. Can I borrow on past good karma to lessen the negative karma debt I am experiencing now?  Will doing an act of repentance absolve me or will I carry this forward to future lifetimes? God (sorry, Buddhists don’t believe in God), I hope I do not have to experience this year again in this or another lifetime, otherwise I am converting to Rastafarianism. Some powerful ganja would at least temporary obliterate some of these intrusive memories, plus I kind of like Reggae music.

     

     

          When karmic debt incurred by others toward me comes due, it would be my preference not to have it paid in installments. Call me avaricious, but I am uninterested in codependently waiting for others to partially comprehend their karmic lessons. I want the debt to be paid in full to eliminate further temptation for me to exact payback (ex-Catholics see this as divine justice) which would then create another round of karmic debt.

      

       Please pass the ganja, my head is hurting from thinking about all this karmic debt.

      

      

Happy Birthday to my Fellowship of the Rings

           I have three excellent friends who are having birthdays this week. Virgos are not known for tolerating the fiery Aries energy but these three never leave any residual burns. Let me tell you about them a la “Lord of the Rings”.

March 25^th-The first of the Aries birthdays is my darling therapist friend, Mary Kay. She hails from the shire (Faribault, Minnesota) where she started out life as a hobbit. Her petite stature did not deter her from leaving the shire for the bright lights of Gondor (aka Minneapolis). There we met working on a psychiatric unit and formed the fellowship of the wings. She left for Rohan (aka Smith College in Northampton, Mass) to complete a Master’s Degree in Social Work and I flew to the Woodland Realm (aka Seattle) to pursue foolishness (sorry, I've never had the altruistic vigor for the endurance trials of mythic quests). She has reinvented herself as ‘Kate’ but I have never yielded to this persona because I knew her when she was a hobbit. We are bonded not only by our fellowship but by our age, idiosyncratic sense of humor, and our passion for our obsessive behaviors. While she is currently preoccupied with Phillip Seymour Hoffman, I am an absorbed sapiophile. This makes for hilarious texts and emails. Whenever I am emotionally paralyzed or overwhelmed, Mary Kay’s counseling and dry wit make me feel better than Zoloft or heroin or both. As an incomparable therapist, she invokes the best of her academic background with the emotional clarity of the most sensible person on the planet. She is the only one of my hobbit friends I will allow to call me by the diminutive of my birth name. So all of you Northamptonites, wish my friend Mary Kay a wonderful birthday. Happy Birthday, Mary Kay. I love you. Thank you for being such a faithful, funny, and fabulous friend.

March 27^th-Aries birthday number two is my pasquinian friend, Peter. He hails from Gondor, too, but I met him here at Moria (aka County Public Health). He resembles Legolas only with a little more girth. Unlike Legolas, Peter does not shoot his arrows straight, he is gay. We met eight years ago when he worked in my department as our contract analyst. Shortly thereafter, he was promoted to another division in Rivendell. A few years ago we reconnected when he returned to the mines of Moria to audit contracts. We have an ongoing argument over which of us is truly more of a gay man. He has introduced me to a new harem of gay men, making me one of the most gayed-up women in this west coast city. Because he lives only a mile away from me, we frequently do a number gay activities together like, searching for a unique brand of body wash at Costco, confessing my deepest darkest secrets amusing him to no end, and brunching occasionally with the rest of the gay harem Sunday mornings. Currently he is pressuring me to join the Sauron (aka the YMCA to swim with him). I have objected to this on the grounds those misogynist bastards at Mordor would never let me use the men’s locker room. Had he not been raised a Mormon and I not a Catholic, we probably would get married. But we all know these mixed marriages never really work out. A former suitor once mockingly referred to him as ‘St. Peter’, an apropos affectation I agree is fitting. Happy Birthday, St. Peter. I love you. Thank you for being my most faithful suitor.

March 29^th-The final Aries birthday belongs to Galadriel (aka Grace), a tall blond, porcelain-skinned, Swedish/German descended elf. We lived in the same fourplex in Gondor. Eventually she was instrumental in getting me employed at Isengard (an outpatient behavioral clinic she worked for) where I became adept at quelling the fears of phobics, extinguishing the consequating behaviors of obsessive-compulsives, and evading sex predators getting aversive operant conditioning (most of whom were the male staff). Grace embodies her name; she is a Galadriel Renaissance woman. Without a doubt, she is an intelligent, considerate, adventurous, humorous, and warm-hearted woman of substance. My nickname for her from our Isengard days is ‘the Madonna’. Truly, to gaze upon her placid countenance one would believe her to be a saintly woman. One of the funniest pictures I have of her is when she borrowed my nun costume for a Halloween party. In this full Holy Orders regalia picture, she is holding what appears to be a glass of whiskey and smoking a cigarette. She has no shame, and better yet, has a hysterical sense of irreverence which is unusual for a non-Catholic. For my 60^th birthday last year she sent me a scrapbook of the 60 reasons why she loves me as a friend. It was a compilation of stories, memories, and pictures of our long history together. I am not known for being a crying sort of woman but I teared up considerably when I realized the effort she put into conveying the depth of her feelings for me through this simple scrapbook. Attention all of you in Austin, Texas:  March 29^th is Grace’s day. Happy Birthday, Grace. I love you. Thank you for your jocosity, sage wisdom, and unfailing support.

The Tricky Business of Dying

       A friend of mine has recently shared with me her not so positive interactions with a friend of hers who is dying.  This friend is a compassionate woman and was distressed by her dying friend’s toxic responses to her. This brought back many memories of when I was a medical social worker at UCLA Medical Center on the oncology and ICU floors. During that time I was requested to intervene many times when the medical staff could no longer handle the behavior of the dying patient or their family.

       My friend’s experience with her dying friend is not unusual. The process of dying is a complicated journey requiring enormous patience, understanding, support, and courage for the person leaving this planet as well as the loved ones left behind. Buddhism, whose central philosophy is focused on death, describes dying it as one of the four great sufferings. There have been countless books written on death. However, it is another matter to confront the reality.

       I am no stranger to dying and death. Personally and professionally I know it from the inside out. Starting from when I was thirteen when I nearly died from a gangrenous appendix, I know what it is like to feel close to death. Had I not told my mother I was going to die if she did not get me to a hospital that day, I probably would not be writing these words. Immediate surgery saved my life. Ironically, a classmate of mine died the same year from the same diagnosis. Because of my overwhelmed mother’s lack of medical instinct, I made a vocational life in medically-affiliated careers to make sure this did not happen to me again. Nearly dying did have some benefits.

       In addition to having the experience of dying, I have also taken care of someone who eventually died from a metastatic brain tumor.  John, a psychologist friend of many years, lasted four years after being diagnosed at the age of thirty-nine. He fought his diagnosis and subsequent disabilities tooth and nail. Though I lived in LA at the time, I frequently was on the phone to him and his ex-wife (his healthcare and financial guardian) in Minneapolis about his shifting medical and emotional needs. He also went through a toxic period as described above by my woman friend.  At one point, he was being so difficult that I told him if he continued down this path no one would take care of him when he lay dying. Tough words needed to be spoken. Fortunately it changed his attitude and bonded us closer together. During the last week of his life when he was in and out of a coma, I returned to physically take care of him until he died at his home. It was a daunting twenty-four hour a day feat to physically take care of my bed-bound friend, administer his meds, and watch his life ebb. The support I received from his ex-wife and other friends made it possible for John to die with love and dignity. To this day, taking care of John while he was dying was one of the most humbling services I have ever performed. I feel honored to have been with him at the end.

     On the other hand, my mother’s dying and death was a nightmare. At the age of fifty-eight, she had a massive stroke. My personal physician who saw her told me her condition was serious but I was unable to emotionally grasp his forebodings. After almost three days, she awoke from her coma unable to speak, utterly dependent on others for all of her care. My mother, who was a very verbal yet a privately independent woman, endured being trapped for weeks in her medical hell. My father, who had depended upon her, became almost psychotic. This threw the rest of my family in chaos. After two weeks of being hospitalized, she had a cardiac arrest. I made it to the hospital while the medical staff were resuscitating her. One of the things my mother told me prophetically about a month before she died is she never wanted to be placed on life support. The valiant hospital arrest team worked on her without a pulse for an hour, not wanting to give up because of her age. It is an absolute nightmare when you know what a massive stroke your mother had which was now compounded by the fact she had not been oxygenating for an hour. The implications became instantly horrific. I grabbed my father and said he had to stop this. He walked away insisting I needed to make the decision. The nursing staff brought me into the room where I had to tell the physicians working on her to cease. The visual impact of watching them stop resuscitating her lifeless body will remain with me forever. She had no chance of surviving this-both her medical team and I knew this. Never have I had to do anything emotionally as courageous as I did that afternoon. My only consolation is that my mother told me her wishes. But it was not in vain: I feel my mother’s death was what made me a compassionate and effective medical social worker. This experience has given me great empathy for family members who also are asked to cut off or limit life support on their loved ones.   

      As a former medical social worker I saw a number of patient’s go through the process of dying. They and their loved ones dance the last dance with myriad of emotions, never in syncopated time. It is an art to process with a dying person and their loved ones a life’s worth of cemented patterns, unique circumstances, differing opinions, and a tsunami of conflicts. This is why I have a Buddhist bent and encourage everyone to talk honestly about death with their loved ones now. This falls frequently on deaf ears. Almost everyone is deluded thinking they have time. We are mired in superstitions about death, thinking we are morbid if we speak about it or consider it jinxing fate. For those who do risk the somber discourse, it is an uncomfortable subject to broach. To all of those squirming at this thought, I will say I am grateful my mother divulged her wishes to me before she died. Had she not, I may have endured a life’s worth of guilt whatever decision I rendered that day.   

    

Feeling Vernal?

‘Spring has come with flowers fair,

 Zephyrs rare,

 And the joy that knows no care.’

Today is the Vernal Equinox at exactly 9:57am PDT.

    ver·nal/ˈvɜrnl/ adjective

1. of or pertaining to spring: vernal sunshine. 

2. appearing or occurring in spring: vernal migratory movements. 

3. appropriate to or suggesting spring; springlike: vernal greenery. 

4. belonging to or characteristic of youth: vernal longings.

"On the day of the equinox, the center of the Sun spends a roughly equal amount of time above and below the horizon at every location on the Earth, so night and day are about the same length. The word equinox derives from the Latin words aequus (equal) and nox (night). In reality, the day is longer than the night at an equinox. Day is usually defined as the period when sunlight reaches the ground in the absence of local obstacles. From the Earth, the Sun appears as a disc rather than a point of light, so when the center of the Sun is below the horizon, its upper edge is visible. Furthermore, the atmosphere refracts light, so even when the upper limb of the Sun is 0.4-degree below the horizon, its rays curve over the horizon to the ground. In sunrise/sunset tables, the assumed semidiameter (apparent radius) of the Sun is 16 minutes of arc and the atmospheric refraction is assumed to be 34 minutes of arc. Their combination means that when the upper limb of Sun is on the visible horizon, its center is 50 minutes of arc below the geometric horizon, which is the intersection with the celestial sphere of a horizontal plane through the eye of the observer. These effects make the day about 14 minutes longer than the night at the Equator and longer still towards the Poles. The real equality of day and night only happens in places far enough from the Equator to have a seasonal difference in day length of at least 7 minutes, actually occurring a few days towards the winter side of each equinox."-Wikipedia

Another Shot at Late Motherhood

      Even though I have never been a mother, I feel I have fairly good maternal instincts. Coming from a large family, I was expected to learn how to properly take care of my much younger sister and brother. The women of my family were good teachers of how to physically nurture children but fell somewhat short on emotional component. They were, after all, tight-assed WASPs. I learned a great deal about the emotional needs of children from my siblings, as well as by helping my younger sister when my nephew was born. Additionally, for about a year, I also worked on a psych unit exclusively with children. This enabled me to further apply developmental psychology and behavioral therapy to children horribly abused, unloved, and disabled with attachment disorders.

      Children of all ages seem to sense my comfort level with them and become easily attached to me. Whenever I visit girlfriends whose children I have known since they were babies, their now adult children always make it a point to also see me. Two weeks ago a friend’s fourteen year old grandson was visiting from another city; he insisted that his grandmother arrange a breakfast so he could spend time with talking with me. Whether it is my groundedness, firm boundaries, or accepting persona, children like being around me.      

      In my early life, I always expected to become a mother one day. For a number of reasons, it did not happen. I do not regret this. Consistently, the majority of my women friends who have had children have told me countless times I was blessed to have never had children. They feel they paid a high price for their sacrifice and did not reap much satisfaction from their responsibilities as a mother. A number of studies about motherhood attest that my friends are not alone in their feelings about this.    

     Yesterday I received a surprising phone call from Christian, the twenty-five year old son of a good friend. He was calling from his parent’s home in Florida where he was visiting. The last time I spoke to him was about a year ago when his father brought him over to my house for vocational counseling. At that time he changed his college major from electrical to mechanical engineering and was seeking vocational advice from me. Though I had met him previously, we formed a stronger bond that day discussing his goals and dreams.

     From his visit that day, it was plain that his parents also hoped I had some magic pixie dust to get him refocused. Christian, being the youngest in his family, appreciated how I saw his strengths being distinct than those of his parents and sister.  He is a kind, sensitive young man whom I perceived needed direction and support. He is motivated but tends to become easily overwhelmed. As a former Vocational Counselor, I could see he would be someone who would most likely take a vocationally circuitous route with many paths. Unlike the rest of his family, I suspected his artistic soul would not align with traditional academic accomplishment followed by career building. This was not welcome news for one wanting to appease his familial high achievers. My intuition told me he would be a late bloomer in life, something most young people today do not believe is possible.

     Christian began out conversation catching me up on his new plans to move back to southern California to resume college and work. We discussed how he has integrated yoga and meditation into his daily life to help stabilize his focus. Being a meditator, we compared our styles of meditation and how valuable it is in dealing with our tendency towards obsessiveness. He seemed more grounded and centered. Then came the question out of the blue I for which I was unprepared. He asked if he could stay with me temporarily when he came back to California until he got back on his feet. I was taken aback that this young man would even consider living with his mother’s friend. Because he is such a good soul, I said yes. But there is also something about Christian that brings out a maternal side of me, a side rarely I experience.

      This is not my first foray in taking in my friend’s adult children. I always do so with clear intent, time limits, and other contractual agreements to reinforce I am not just their second codependent pseudo-mom. Christian moving in with me could be mutually beneficial for both of us. My strengths may provide him with a stronger new start and he may bring out my less tough, softer maternal side. We’ll see.

So Long, Sister Soul Mate

     

      Not many people come into your life making such a significant contribution it changes your life profoundly. Six months a met a woman named Moira who became that person for me. Our meeting took place as a result of training her in a unique software program required for her work environment.  An instant attraction developed quickening the normal course of developing a friendship. We are about the same age, from the Midwest, and have shared values. But it was more than that. Our connection ran deeper than just friendship-I distinctly feel I have known her my whole life.

      The concept of a female soul mate is not what a woman conjures up when using this term, unless one is a lesbian. Most women are conditioned to think of this as our heterosexual life partner. Haven’t we all had the ineffable experience of meeting a kindred spirit of our own sex who catapulted us into a phenomenal relationship beyond our comprehension?  

      Moira is a wise soul: a sculptor, a mother, a nurse, an educator, an oracle, a curandera, and a diplomat. She embodies traits I wish I had. Throughout her short stay as my colleague, she has endured lies, deceit, departmental skews, and political sophistry from her department that would cripple or craze most people. Her adroit handling of this reflects what a gracious, kind, and compassionate woman she is. One cannot help admire her courage and humor in navigating the pernicious bureaucratic leadership seeking to manipulate for their own political agendas. Being intuitively perceptive, she knew the long term implications of this would ultimately be too high a price to pay, inciting her to choose another option in another area far from here. It is a tremendous loss to all who know her but especially for me.      

     Outside of work we have shared our life stories, laughed at the ridiculousness of life, dissected our relationships with men, discussed the foundations of creativity, and dreamed of our futures. Though we did not spend much time together, we communicated so honestly there was no sense of space between us. Moira has an extraordinary gift for facilitating dialogue with meaning. I would walk away from our interactions more enlightened and inspired. Her empathy allows her to cut to the heart of the matter with restorative sustenance. Hands down, she is one of the most brilliant women I have ever had the good fortune to grace my life. I am grateful to the universe for this serendipitous intersection which has filled my soul with poignancy.

      Moira will be leaving in a few short weeks. This will not be the end. We will stay connected as female soul mates through electronic media. However, I will miss our walks, talks, and her presence in my daily life.             

My Vocational Apocalypse

    Everyone has a bad day at work once in a while. Mine has been going on for years. Political correctness, protecting one’s turf, and appearing indispensable when nothing of real value is being produced, are the top skills most admired in my workplace.  

      Because I work in government, the incompetent people in power hire their friends or their friend’s friends. No matter whom they employ, the despots at the top won’t hire anyone who they perceive will threaten their deluded veracity or impeach their thin veneer of credibility. Amazingly, in my workplace if one gets demoted from management your pay grade does not decrease. Thus, one is behaviorally rewarded for ineptitude. Where is Sarah Palin and the rest of the Tea Party when you need them?

        What is the solution for the depressing tie that binds? The creative use of imagination. We are all told to fear. Fear economic disaster, fear never again working, fear being impoverished, and fear the unknown. Fear keeps up hypnotized to the paralyzing acclimation to crazy workplaces, dysfunctional management, and job dissatisfaction. Years ago I lost everything in a divorce that spiritually, emotionally, and financially left me bankrupt. Along with my marriage, I lost my house, my way of being, and hope. But I am still here. How was I able to rise above devastation? Through having faith in my ability to imagine and create something from nothing.

     We are rarely told to have faith. Faith in taking a risk, faith in believing one can create a better destiny, faith that life can renew itself with more fulfillment. In the death knell that is being sounded at my work, I am reminded the universe is moving me toward syntropy-‘the tendency towards energy concentration, order, organization and life.’ I am on the road to find out.              

Skeleton Woman

   Right now I am rereading Clarissa Pinkola Estes’ classic book, “Women Who Runs with the Wolves”. Originally it was published in 1992, quickly becoming a best seller. For years I have considered this a reference book, reading it in different developmental stages of my adult life. The stories Ms. Pinkola Estes chose for this book, as well as her interpretations, are absolutely brilliant. Even after twenty-two years, its sage wisdom is the source of never ending inspiration.

     My personal favorite chapter is, “When the Heart is a Lonely Hunter”. This chapter is about love, intimacy, and the foibles of overcoming roadblocks to the union we are all seeking. Ms. Estes tells the story of Skeleton Woman, an Inuit woman who defied her father and was thrown into the ocean where she became a skeleton at the bottom of the ocean. Though most fishermen avoided the haunted inlet where Skeleton Woman was in repose, one uninformed fisherman fished the bay and accidentally brought Skeleton Woman from her watery grave. What ensued was a snagged skeleton appearing to chase the poor fisherman across the inlet. After being chased by this bony nightmare, he dove into his hut with her caught in his fishing line. Eventually his fears of the Skeleton Woman dissipated and he untangled her. Calmed by his own empathy, he fell fast asleep. In his sleep he cried a tear that hydrated her. As he slept she took out his heart, drummed up a new fleshy body with it, and returned it to him repurposed. They awoke intertwined in the morning, lovers who overcame their personal injuries, fears, doubts, apprehensions, and reality.

     Her analysis of this tale is spellbinding. She dissects each nuance rendering heartfelt sage wisdom. One of my favorite quotes is when the fisherman looks upon Skeleton Woman with compassion instead of fear. Ms. Pinkola Estes’ interpretation is: “For the naïve and wounded, the miracle of the psyche’s ways is that even if you are halfhearted, irreverent, didn’t mean to, didn’t really hope to, don’t want to, feel unworthy to, aren’t ready for it, you will accidentally stumble upon treasure anyway. Then it your soul’s work to not overlook up has been brought up, to recognize treasure as treasure no matter how unusual  its form, and to consider carefully what to do next.”

     How often do we stumble upon treasure and throw it away? How many of us have felt the cruel sting of not being enough or being too much? How many of us even feel treasured? This is thought provoking stuff.

     My other favorite quote concerns the addiction to perfectionism in relationships. Even when we and our significant other are ‘perfect’, life is not. “If lovers insist on a life force gaiety, perpetual pleasuramas, and other forms of deadening intensity, if they insist on sexual ‘Donner and Blitz thunder and lightning, or a torrent of the delectable and no strife at all, there goes the Life/Death/Life nature right over the cliff, drowned in the seas again.” Further, “The desire to force love to live on in its most positive form only is what causes love ultimately to fall over dead, and for good.”

     This particular story is an amazing illustration of how much impatience we have with the process of forming a bond with another human. “Our own secret hunger to be loved is the not-beautiful. Our disuse and misuse of love is the not-beautiful. Our dereliction in loyalty and devotion is unlovely, our sense of soul-separateness is homely, our psychological warts, inadequacies, misunderstandings, and infantile fantasies are the not-beautiful.” For the fisherman to see past the bony scary Skeleton Woman and untangle her while feeling empathy is where the connection of love begins.

     “Three things differentiate living from the soul versus living from ego only. They are: the ability to sense and learn new ways, the tenacity to ride a rough road, and the patience to learn deep love over time.” Thank you, Ms.Pinkola Estes for telling the story of our lives.

The Sacred Institution of Marriage

     Kiddingly, I wrote to a straight man I know, joking that I may be better off marrying one of my gay men friends with whom I share strong compatibility and friendship. His retort was, “the wedding would have been marvelous, wonderful decorations, probably way over the top. Flamboyance all over, but it all would have been a show and an insult to the sacred institution of marriage.”

    This from a straight man who claims to be "gay friendly". The gloves came off when I read those words. My reply was, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait a minute. What do you mean it would be an insult to the sacred institution of marriage? Sorry, I respectfully disagree: marriage is not a sacred institution. It is a legally binding contract, and not a particularly good one for women. The sacred stuff is made up by religions created by heterosexual men. I've been married twice and neither of those marriages were particularly sacred, especially the way they ended. More than 50% of marriages end up in divorce-that doesn't sound too sacred to me. The noble concept of Holy Matrimony is a far cry from the reality of marriage, where men leave women with no child support, cheat on them, physically abuse them, and worse. Statistically, the number one risk of death for a pregnant married women is being murdered by her husband. Yes, what a sacred institution.”

   This argument has been used by conservative religious leaders as a legitimate reason for denying gays to have the right to marriage. Who originally pronounced the institution of marriage as sacred? Religious leaders who are straight men. What is the definition of sacred?

sa·cred adjective

1. devoted or dedicated to a deity or to some religious purpose; consecrated.

2. entitled to veneration or religious respect by association with divinity or divine things; holy.

3. pertaining to or connected with religion (opposed to secular or profane ): sacred music; sacred books.

4. reverently dedicated to some person, purpose, or object: a morning hour sacred to study.

5. regarded with reverence: the sacred memory of a dead hero.

    But the definition of marriage as sacred has even broader implications. It presupposes that the consecration of this institution as sacred prohibits a meaningful committed relationship outside of a religious context if one is gay or chooses to live together.

    My friend got hot under the collar with my reply and wrote. “I respect your opinion, please respect mine.” Well, isn’t this just a nice, tidy way of avoiding the real issues behind the denial of civil rights? 

    My final email to my new ex-friend addressed this: “I have a constitutional right to disagree with you and not respect your opinion. It is homophobic, misogynistic, religiously skewed, and just plain wrong. Marriage is a legal contract period. The word sacred is assigned to give the institution of matrimony some God-given status as divinely blessed. Not that I have anything against relationships being divinely blessed, but defining marriage as a sacred institution denies the significant non-sacred issues which occur frequently in marriages. In addition, it is exclusionary of people who would like the right to be married in society.”  

    This is why I am an unabashed supporter of women's rights, gay rights, and civil rights for all  of us who have been at the merciless brunt of those who think they their gender, sexual preference, and religious affiliation makes them superior.

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