generals?

Do you think female and gay military generals would send our young men off to die as quickly and in such great numbers as have been sent by many of our mainstream men?

I saw this picture on the sidewalk and it screamed at the senselessness of much of it. The grief and rage gripped me. The background oil refineries haunt.

haircut kiss

This picture sparks my love for my paternal grandparents. Grandmother Bonnie bends over and kisses Grandfather Blaine on his head. She would soon be diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and pass away quickly. A tragedy that still takes my breath away. Strangely perhaps, I miss them.

I will never see her again in this life. Or him. He's gone as well. A couple of weekends ago I was in a workshop receiving a lengthy massage. Our emotions were encouraged. My thoughts went to my partner, and then they slipped to my Abuelito (Grandfather) Luis, then Grandmother Bonnie, Abuelita Rosalba, and Grandfather Blaine. I saw them and I missed them terribly. That's all I'll say for that. Then at the end of the massage our whole bodies were wrapped in a light cloth. Like a body preparing for the tomb. And in my mind I went to the grave - with my ancestors. And many of my patients who I have grown to love - dearly - who have died. Another woman with pancreatic cancer. A middle-aged father with metastatic (spreading) tumors. A Mexican young man. My body descended into the dirt. And I grieved in a surprising way.

I will never see them again. Or will I? Part of me hopes that I will. So many people say they are so sure. And really - nobody knows for sure. The real answer is this: I don't know. But I sure hope so. And if I never do, I will go on missing them.

Before this picture Grandpa Blaine had had a heart attack and open-heart surgery. I watched Grandma lift the gallon of milk to pour it for him - too painful for him with the huge incision opening his ribs. He was honery and jabbed her frequently with his words. Cranky. And just as easily break down and cry expressing his love for her. One moment ordering her to get this or that for the breakfast table, the next moment praising her homemade bread and voice cracking in prayer at his mention of her name. Messed up I thought. Even then. But she never complained. She silently brought the cream, the bread, the hot mush, the egg. And kissed him. At our mention of these discrepancies, she would note that he was hurting after his heart surgery. And how she wanted to be there for him.

Some time later when he healed, and she became ill - terminally - he was devastated. He brought her food, and sat at her bedside, and cried. Mostly out of her presence if he could. She was progressively in alot of pain. And her desire to serve her partner was increasingly limited. The hospice nurses came in shifts. She shifted between wanting to manage the pain, and wanting to be present for Blaine. A couple of months later - near the end, Bonnie calmly told Blaine that she would like him to remarry when she passed. Hearing this was too much for him.

- - -

I came from California and visited, with my mother one afternoon. Aunt Tony had photocopied many of their favorite songs piano music and given it to me. Grandma Bonnie suggested to me prostrate that I play some of these songs to lift Grandpa's spirits. She encouraged him to sing. She loved hearing him sing she said. He consented to one or two. Soon he'd been singing three or four. And at the end of a piece turn the page contentedly to the next one, tickled at the magic of memory lane. I'd done this with my father many times, it seemed so natural. He singing and I playing the piano. Grandpa sang the popular songs of their youthful marriage and courtship, mixed with sacred pieces.

One song caught him unexpected though. "When I am lonely, and you are gone... Sing me to sleep..." sang the text, in a surreal parallel to their current experience. He tried to get through the verses, but by the the second chorus, "When I am lonely,... you are so dear..." his voice cracked and brought him to his knees. Literally. My mother turned off the video camera she'd been holding - to respect this sacred grief. And he found himself a few feet away kneeling on the ground at the couch where she lay, his head buried in her bosom, shaking in great heaves. She cradled his head. They both present to eachother. Wordless. Torrents being communicated and experienced.

Grandma Bonnie quietly thanked me later when we parted. Saying that he needed to grieve. That it had finally hit him. She praised me, trying to hide her grimacing.

- - -

When I look at this picture all of that and more flashes in an instant. An emotional swell. An early morning home haircut. A wordless kiss on the crown of the head. So common it could almost be taken for granted.

- - - - - - - - - - -

This is the unedited, uncensored version. Some chafe at the mention of "negative" traits of ancestors. Like history books, some prefer to gloss over certain details and create pictures coloured rose or only warm hues. But our children need to see, in my view, all of our humanity, and see us struggle, figure things out, and live through imperfect situations. See how strong love can be. So it is no disrespect to note that my esteemed Grandfather was often cranky, that their Abuelito drank alot in his early years and almost lost his marriage, that their Abuelita ran away from home to the big city at age sixteen to make herself a nurse, that their uncle is gay and partnered with a wonderful accomplished man, that our blood has been through heart-breaking divorce, prison, mis-carriage, infertility, depression, or nearly any other thing that many would prefer not to talk about, and that binds us as common with all the human family.

I record this for family to "witness" a holy event that perhaps will give them a window into the greatness of the common people we descend from and are.

little celebrations

Life has many little things to celebrate. Here are a few I caught by camera.



a friendly horse near Santa Fe, New Mexico

Raya, Russian-American dear friend of Casey's, psychologist, doctor, with her son and medical assistant

chicken-pot pie at a lesbian-owned successful Fremont business, one of Casey's favorite local food spots

at the club Cuff with our good Brazilian Mormon visitor friend Shae, one of the ever-fun Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, and sweaty dance-happy me

crosses at a Catholic pilgrimage site Chimayo in the high desert, esteemed as holy even by the local mainstream artistic secular community  



santa fe thanksgiving

We've been wanting to visit Raya in Santa Fe, so finally made the trip this weekend. Casey went to school for 3 years with Raya a few years ago. They connected on several levels.

A lot of places in Santa Fe
 have farolitos on the houses and businesses
 - for Christmas.

 

nyc nov 2012

Casey and I came to New York City for a workshop. Here are some pictures of the city from my cell phone.

An early morning run to Central Park provided a unique find - ice-skating in the trees to Bach and Michael Buble.  

The Highline - old unused elevated train tracks converted into several blocks of garden walk-way.

This dog was licking this security-guard's face non-stop. Blurry pic - sorry. The dog just would not stop. I asked him if I could take a picture.  

As if on cue the dog posed... then resumed his affectionate displays. 

A view over the Hudson River - in the hazy distance is the statue of liberty.

trying on glasses in a souvenir store

on the subway 

a cool sculpture on the Highline

quiet spots even in the bustling city

fremont treasures

Our neighborhood has many little treasures. Here are a few, after the first one, that I photographed while out on a run.

We went to a halloween production of the musical Adams Family,
and the ladies behind us were dressed up for the night.  
Very funny show.

Here's a swing that has touched my heart, not far from where we live. It's a simple enough idea. A swing on a sidewalk. What gets me is this: the idea of giving a free gift to anyone that passes by. The idea of giving to the world. In simple ways. That speak volumes. You wouldn't believe the number of people that walk by, smile, and sit down and swing for a bit.

A neighborhood garden shop. I'd much rather put my dollars here, to the lady owners on the other side of the counter, than at Fred Meyer, or some other store where the money goes to make someone already uber rich far away even richer. It encourages local creativity. Plus I get great advise and neighborly service.

This has got to be one of my favorite places.
I took a beginning ukulele class here.

Love this place too. Some diverse classes.

picturesque canals and bridges by water-ways

The autumn leaves provide a colorful carpet on this trail.
The pink bike indicates funky mainstream attitudes.

House-boats. What a cool life.

 

same love

A pediatrician friend of ours has family that helped make this video about same sex love. I love the message.

Merricks visit

The Merricks came and visited us a few weekends ago. What an honor it was to have them in our home for a couple nights and go touristing around the city. I had a pink wig in the basement - which can you guess who fell in love with it and wore it that evening to the Space Needle outing?

gangnam style

Casey showed me this video. I have to share it. It has over 400 million views, and several copy-cat dancers including US navy guys, and many others around the world. It originates from South Korean rapper Psy. Fun.

weeping nurse

I walked into work and found two of my co-workers in tears in the breakroom. I'll call one of them: Sweet Gentle Smarty Who's Always Collected (rare qualities on a busy hospital floor). The other was sitting there crying in empathy, without words. Come to find out, she is preparing to marry, and her parents don't want anything to do with her fiancee. He's from another race.

Trying on her wedding dress, her mother is trying to talk her out of marriage, speaking ill of his genetic composition and culture. Her father has refused to meet the young man. She sat there quietly weeping - I'd never seen this vulnerability in her before - wishing that her parents would just get to know this man she loves, and love him too.

Her tears jarred something in me that have had me thinking about her the last couple days. Man I'm sad. I understand partly, personally. I've heard her story so many times in so many variations. And part of me is angry.

I don't know how to fix it. Other than love her. And build bridges with diverse people in my own life and circles. And encourage others to reach into their more loving self, and let go of their set expectations for someone else, and welcome change, and newness, and love.

august slc visit

This is my favorite picture in the set.
My beautiful sister's gaze, my dad in his white hat,
the bubbling contentedness of my toddler niece,
and sunset hitting the granite columns.

A photographer at an R.E.I. workshop said that
the #1 tip he could give in taking good pictures
is to: point at beautiful things and click lots.

Casey and Mom chatting on a walk under a dynamic sky. 

Around the capitol building after dinner.
Evelyn had gotten into the pool with her clothes,
and had to wear Casey's shirt to be dry for the outing.

The wind lifts her hair,
framing an active toddler who pauses,
knowing to look up and smile for the camera.

My adorable little sister
who amazes me,
when I behold her.
I'm struck how even given life's twists and turns,
and the shit us siblings sometimes trigger in eachother,
I'm washed over with pride,
and protectiveness,
and wonder,
and admiration.

With Casey's parents at the Pancake House.
Yes we indulged.

The signature baked apple pancake, wow!

dear hypothetically gay son - from parenting blog

Read a blog post that made me cry this morning here in a cafe in Chilliwack, outside Vancouver, B.C..

Ask Your Dad Blog | Parenting Blog: Dear Hypothetically Gay Son: I ran across this letter on Reddit this morning. It is from a father disowning his gay son. It broke my heart. It's not the first time that...

rock flower

Triangle Recreation Camp outside Seattle had some neat features last weekend. Here's a couple:

peeling Rosalbita

Today, in 2008, my maternal grandmother breathed her last breathe in Los Andes, Chile. Here's my most common connection to her: Every time I peel a mango, potato, or other round fruit or vegetable, I think of my grandmother Rosalba - Abuelita. Every time.

She used to stand over her pot peeling things with a knife, telling us stories, with a twinkle of mischief and delight. We were amazed at those hands. She didn't hardly look... so used to the task from the decades of preparing food. And she drew the knife toward her fingers!

Here she was breaking every rule our mother had taught us - to cut away from the fingers. I was amazed that she never cut herself. That she missed her adept fingers every time by millimeters. And that she dared break our mother's rule was astounding. Of course, she was her mother, so she trumped it. Little bits of naughtiness.

And then the coolest part: she'd cut the entire peeling in one long strand, all connected. Then hold it up triumphantly at the end, with a sparkle of pride, to her little audience.

So guess what I do, every time I prepare a similar food? Just like my Abuelita. And I feel a sense of satisfaction, mischief and connection. All this from peeling a mango. To a life that has touched mine forever... and from whose blood I am... Abuelita...

ecstatic dance

I walked down to a huge basement business space dimly lit by white christmas lights and expansive wall mirrors. The music tribal international. Mary greeted me at the table and gave me a few guidelines, like no talking on the dance floor, and feel free to pick up an instrument and sit down at the sacred altar space.

At first I felt weird. People danced in their own non-conventional ways. And I got nervous about being seen dancing freely. I stalled for a bit and observed the altar space, circled the floor barefoot, and played a percussion instrument. In a few minutes though I surrendered to the music rhythms - let go - and melted onto the dance floor. My mind raced and judged, plotted, planned. I breathed. And walked past my busy mind... and found myself dancing... judging less and enjoying more. Responding to the different beats, at times I was in spinning Arabia, or drumming Africa, or the festive Caribbean, or hippie funky America.

I found myself smiling more, and exchanged smiles with a few others. Soon I began to lose myself - and come home. Something ancient. Connected to my body. To the ancestors and human collective. Somewhere magical and free. Connected. Alive. Still. Wild.

We sat in a circle at the end, and shared with the opening, "today at dance...". I was amazed at the beauty of so many. Inside and out.

I'll be back. I've found home again. 

tai chi - conducting - and a bear

I often want to write here, and getting to it is my biggest hurdle. Sometimes I want to journal or elucidate - and find that I am censoring myself. (Both a plus and a minus.) Connecting as a blogger and friend is also an energy. Here's a blog entry of no earth-shattering import, but significant in little shifts.

tai chi

I found a Tai Chi class two blocks from my home that has really spoken to me. I've looked into other practices nearby such as Masa African Dance, Ukulele Class, Yoga, Bikram Hot Yoga, Naked Yoga. They speak to me in different ways, or somehow fit or don't fit. But this Tai Chi class really resonates with me. I found myself very moved emotionally a couple of times while in certain poses. I know this as one of my body's truth-responses. Something ancient and archetypal. Perhaps something streaming through me. The instructor calls it chi.

One of the poses is called standing meditation. Except that it more resembles a standing fetus. The knees slightly bent, the arms squared forward, the hands limp and vertical. Shoulders slightly caved. When I got it right, with my eyes closed, it seemed like I was transported - floating in a dark womb - connected somehow to ancient Chinese ancestors gazing and participating with me.

Then last night we moved through various graceful stances, moving energy through our bodies with arms and hands. The one that got me is palms to the forhead and face, moving back over the head. Images of patriarchs blessing their posterity, and self-blessing, overwhelmed me. I'm glad I found this treasured practice. The instructor is a warm American man who travels to China regularly, and has a combination of technical combat-arts masculinity with spiritual insight sensitivity. Yeng - yang.

conducting

Dream occurences can signal significant or subtle shifts in a life journey. A few nights ago I was conducting a high school choir, enjoying it, the movement and skill of my hands, and delighted (and surprised) as the choir responded to my every conducting gesture.

This represents, perhaps, a creative/disciplined part of me that is responding and cooperating. It is a new dream. For years in my dreams classroom scenarios have often been a recurring nightmare of combativeness. Through a dreams psychologist of Jungian school of thought, I learned that the two parties represented, perhaps, the war between my creative impulsive side (the students), and the disciplined driver (the teacher). I learned to honor both, and give both of the energy and time in my life. Since then that recurring dream has morphed into other dreamscapes, I am no longer stuck there. So a dream where both parts - the creative impulsive students and the disciplined structured teacher - are working together in harmony is a new and significant dream. I trust that it represents a new emerging dance in my waking-world reality too.

a bear

A good friend that also keeps a dreams-journal dreams often with animal characters. And dreams books and courses are replete with animal appearance. So it was with initial dismay that I reflected that my dreams were devoid of animals. Perhaps I am too removed from nature, or too much of a city-dweller, or so domesticated that the wildness does not visit me even while asleep, I mused. Others invited me to let go of these judgements, and simply reflect, and be open to animals - especially undomesticated animals - thinking of them, noticing them and their appearances, even in my city life. Animals like the raven and a mouse visited my dreams.

Then last night a black bear. I was with two women in an outdoor home / retreat, getting out of a vehicle with others, and I saw a bear in the forest, and knew that it would be coming again. It was large and often stood up on its hind legs, dangerous and beautiful. I consider its appearance significant movement. Undomesticated beast, friend. In the tradition of this psychologist, the black bear is not to be avoided or killed. Though feared, it is to be heard. Perhaps it represents a part of me, or more literally, an agent of the dream world desiring to impart a wisdom. I am open and listening. Though much still remains a mystery, as in life in general, its appearance is new and meaningful.