Berkeley Fog

It smells like Berkeley outside tonight, the air is damp and cool, like a typical autumn evening on campus when the fog is rolling in. Reminds me of walking to BART after hours spent in the GTU library, or sitting at a small table at the Peet’s on Domingo Ave., sipping a latté, writing in a journal.

Watched the TX-Cal football game last night, and could feel the fog in Strawberry Canyon just as if I was there. The smells, sounds, even the feel of the cheap stadium seats under my bum all so familiar. 

At times, I get so homesick for CA that I feel my insides wringing tears out of my heart. After ten years I thought perhaps I was all cried out. Alas, no. 3,000 miles away from the place I most want to be, missing my friends and family so much I feel as if I might crack vertically in half, my body no longer able to contain the heartbreak.

Life as I knew it stopped twelve years ago the day I collapsed from Lyme. Still unable to rise up, the love and appreciation for all the wonderful people in my life burn as strongly as ever.  Do they ever think of me? They all have busy lives, with jobs, kids, some even have grandkids now. I am someone they knew, worked, sailed, stitched, or perhaps sang with, who moved away and is long gone. To me, they are all still as present and as important as they were a decade ago.

Since collapsing on August 20, 2004, I have lived in a sort of suspended animation. Work, home, friendships, sailing, SF opera and baseball season tickets, and for God’s sake my home all ceased, put on hold until I “felt better.” Well, guess what – there ain’t no feeling better. Bacteria and parasites destroyed my life, my body, my mind. I am a mere shade of the person I was, now living in a town so small it doesn’t even have a grocery store or 7-11.

I constantly wonder, with much trepidation, how much more grief my psyche and body can take.  No doubt the substantial surgery and five hospitalizations in the last year stand testament to the weight with which the longing and sorrow burden this remnant of a once proud and beautiful corpus.  I doubt my friends would even recognize me. Hell, when I look in the mirror I don’t recognize me.

The thought of one of the Bay Area compadres falling ill and dying without my being able to say adieu, to tell them how much their friendship means, how memories of their making my life full and happy sustain me today. For a dozen years, this has been my only goal: To return to the life I once led.

So to all who read these words, take note: You truly matter to me, and always will. 

Digging A Hole

(Written 2-17-10, at Starbucks in Lake Forest's Market Square)

Jack London wrote 20 hours a day. I'm lucky if I write one hour a day. To write, to call myself a writer, and truly attempt to pen a publishable work, I need to dig myself a hole: A place where I could put everything else on hold, and devote my money and time to the pursuit. If I could invest in myself, in the life of a writer, I'd find a tidy place to live in Oakland and spend my days sitting in a cubicle at the Mills College library, staring out at the Creek. That would be my office, my place to work to fill the hole, each day. Quiet and serene, I could watch the trees and the rain and put words to paper without thought of family or obligation.

If you love something deeply enough, or are passionate about it to the Nth extreme, digging a hole would be the only way to fully commit to your calling. Is it even possible to write a book without that passion? To work on it here and there, squeezed in around life’s chaos? If I truly believe in this project, to write about my experiences in medicine and spirit, don't I need to commit myself and stop coasting through sick and not-so-sick days?

Living as I do write (sic) now, I feel passionate about nothing. Am I numb to my own desires? No I know they are sitting patiently somewhere in my gut. To feel the drive to write – or to needlepoint or sing – would open the door to allow all the mother anger crap to come to the surface. No wonder I sit at home and can't think or feel or create: My inner security guard locks the doors (or more likely disguises them beyond recognition) so I sit and spin mental wheels in stale futility. Most likely I will not be free to feel or write diagnostically until I'm free of my mother and her condo.

Alas, there's the caveat: To be free of the condo requires money, which requires a full-time job. To work at a job all day cancels in totality the possibility of hole creation. And so once again, I stand in my father's shoes, working at a job that does nothing for me but supply health insurance and a paycheck. “Do you like your job?” Is a question I cannot honestly answer, for I know what my soul wants. See how Little Miss Practical overrules even intellectual desires.  

If we were truly an empathic species, we'd create places where people with creative dreams and talents could work without worry of money or shelter. We believe in art as a food or medicine for the soul, without which every individual would suffer. In a writer's work would be equivalent to any other person's efforts – regardless of field of expertise – and we'd all believe in the collective's ability to barter and compensate.

In this pickled condition my life resides, my dreams are quashed along with hope and thought; in the cold dysfunctional air of my mother's condo, I'm stymied beyond all ability to think. Can I unravel the overly-taut web of repressed rage Mom lives in, just enough to create a space where I can exist in positive energy? Her hatred and resentments permeate every piece of furniture, every room, and every door. So I feel the anger and then live in it, my psyche’s development nurtured in a hopeless and infertile environment.

I do not want to be my Mother, to live angry, breathe and eat angry every day, to be so mad at the world that I stay home to spite it, convincing myself that I have control, and in hurting the World back by depriving it (them) of my presence. This is self-deception, for is factually the opposite.

My Grandmother Alice created such a space for herself, year after year pulling the walls in around her and refusing to forget those who wounded her. She would go for days without talking to anyone, living her specific, controlled routine, going to bed every night craving company to the point of heartbreak. When one reaches a place where one has nothing but one's anger, life is hollow and cold. Pride becomes an unconscious dagger in the soul. I must not end my days like that! Waiting for the Pain Inflictors to awaken and say," Sorry! You were right. We were wrong." They never will. If I live the second half of my life with feet dug in and arms crossed, I will have wasted existence. How horrible it would be to die, knowing that what I crave, recovery, is completely unobtainable!

All the endless pain and abuse from childhood cannot be understood by a child; children see in black and white without any ability to extrapolate meaning. My core personality, as my Grandmother's and my Mother’s, is waiting to be free. My Mother will die before she gives in to the bastards, and is determined to be the last “man” standing. She will show the patriarchy that they are wrong about women – all women, regardless of the cost to her soul.

And so I carry the millennia-old anger of my sex, standing tall for my generation and for women to come. My anger and rage at society is a long, long relay, where a mother passes the baton of anti-patriarchy to her daughter. With each handoff the phrase, “Don don't let the bastards win!” is shouted. Yet there must be a way to wage this relay of spirit without running angry. For if I'm angry at all men there is no way I can find love in a meaningful relationship with one of them. No man wants to bed a runner for in the end we never stay put.

Now I must ask how to continue running without the potent Gatorade called anger. It drives and fills every cell in my body with unending energy a strong, unlimited, and useful shield against all the world's wounders. To not end up alone and livid in a one bedroom Social Security supplemented apartment I need to change my focus on food sources.

The problem becomes a common one: I have lived so long this way, I know no other way to be. To return to the happy and vibrant person I was before I first felt sexual discrimination I must imagine a time without it, a place where I don't need anger to keep me standing and functional or even alive. No one will respect my pursuit, in the long run, if all I have left is anger. For when angry, we are always on the defensive, never creating, always distracting – or deconstructing as evidenced by the Civil Rights Movement. Malcolm X came from a place of anger and revolt, Martin Luther King Jr. one of confident hope. However, both said we must tear down the current society to build up a new one. Anger must be supplanted by wisdom and quiet courage.

The years of angrily burning bras and forcing walls to crumble are behind us. Today, women – I – must build wholly-owned societal components on foundations of trust and equity, for the “Way of the Peaceful Warrior” is the hardest but longest enduring. To rage against the machine is futility at its most heartbreaking.

Lawana Blackwell said it best: “The hatred you’re carrying is a live coal in your heart – far more damaging to yourself than to them.”

Amen, sister. Amen.

The End Of Civilization As We Know It

Beautiful women are supposed to act “beautiful” (or beautifully, to be grammatically correct). I'm not sure what that means, but I do know that we are not to belch, fart, sing out of tune, discuss politics or religion, say anything smarter than the smartest man in the room, and only hiccup in tiny, polite “pops!” Whatever would society do if a beautiful woman showed her intelligence? Why it would throw off the entire balance of the world, with all society in an uproar and no one knowing how to react, just as when the little boy shouted “The King is naked!" in the fairytale.

Could the end of the world, predicted precisely by Mayan astrologers for December 21, 2012 be connected to this idea? In my feminist heart I wish that could be the day when the balance of power shifts back towards matriarchy, to finally find its middle ground after millennia of patriarchy. Perhaps on that day, finally, enough women on the planet will stand and speak their minds – regardless of their appearance or social status – and face their fears of losing respectability and male attention. We could all fart out loud at the same time! “Belch if you're beautiful!” could be our rallying cry.

The end of the world in less than two months has some folks twisted in knots. For me it is becoming obvious that this planetary destruction is metaphoric, not actual. On the Solstice a veil shall be rent, leaving us transfixed upon a great shift of consciousness; no longer will anyone be able to use denial as a coping mechanism. Wouldn't it be something if this truly was a movement of the power pendulum back to center, a day when the words male, chauvinist, and pig are no longer uttered in the same sentence?

Some scientists predict that on this fateful December day the poles of the Earth will shift, rocking the planet off its axis, yielding death and destruction for as much is 75% of living beings. Talk about a biblical flood! If God wants to wipe out humanity and begin anew, switching the poles is a great way to do it. Magnetic North becoming South is a perfect analogy for what needs to happen in the world. IMHO most of us need to be picked up by the ankles (like a newborn) and our behinds whacked until we wake up our minds and breathe in a new air. In fact, we might be able to see the world in an entirely new perspective if hung upside-down long enough.

Dr. Phil says that "Women need a reason to have sex, men just need a place." If that's true (and I believe it is) by shifting Magnetic North men will no longer have their places, and women will need to find new reasons. Might just be what the doctor ordered for a mighty shift of consciousness, no? For as we all know everything, always, boils down to sex.

That is, as long as beautiful women don't fart. 

Darkness, Darkness

In the most painful, darkest moments of my life, when I feel so abandoned it as if there are hands gripping my heart, wringing it dry, the Universe reminds me that I am not alone, am loved, and that my life has meaning.

On Sunday, November 4, Da Bears beat da pants off the Tennessee Titans, crushing them 51-20. During the first half of the game I cheered them on while packing books and photo albums in Mom’s den. During halftime, my heart became leaden-heavy, for I realized I had no one with whom to share the euphoric Bears’ rout. The loneliness grew until not only did it fill the room, but also the entire condo; it was as if I couldn't see straight, my world limited to the circumference of the apartment, and my abilities wholly limited by ill health and tears.

Then out of the blue the doorbell rang, as it was Sunday afternoon I was not expecting visitors. So when a lovely voice at the front door said, “Hi I'm Barbara. I'm with the church's flower ministry. I have flowers for Laura” came over the speaker I was stunned. In grubby sweats and my hair roughly up in a claw clip I waited at the apartment door. As I had been crying it was difficult for me to smile and greet her. She handed me a vase of white carnations, a small bouquet created from much larger arrangements that had decorated the chancel and sanctuary during the service a few hours prior. I started to tear up and told her how the day was progressing, of my mother’s death, pending homelessness, and that before her arrival I felt utterly alone. While we talked she hugged me three times, and told me she would keep me in her thoughts and prayers.

The note accompanying the flowers read, “Dear Laura - the family of the First Presbyterian Church is holding you in prayer as you face the loss of your mother and your own uncertain future. Blessings to you and may you feel God's arms holding you.” (Typing these words, just as when first reading the note, I cry.) I believe we cannot hope to weather life’s storms without others’ arms around us, be they God's arms, a child's arms, animal paws, a voice on the telephone, or an email.

Forced at too young an age to survive without company, most of my life has been spent alone, desperate, and self-reliant. Although I am most grateful to all that is good and purposeful in this world for the fortitude of 1000 lifetimes, there are moments when the pain of loneliness, or the deep, pulsating heartbreak of lost love, brutally overwhelms me.

In the winter of 2005, when I was so ill I could barely trudge up and down stairs, I had a physically pain-ridden, terrible day. I needed solace, and tried for hours to reach out via telephone, leaving many messages – but none were returned. By 7 PM the Lyme arthritis was so horrible I went upstairs for a long soak in a hot bath. When I finally returned downstairs to turn off the lights and lock the doors I noticed a small, yellow box on my patio. It was a DHL box, a little larger than a VCR tape, sitting on the doormat just outside the sliding glass door - the delivery person had thrown it over my locked patio gate, and somehow, magically, it was right where I could see it.

The box weighed next to nothing; on the reverse was the return address of my dear, dear friends Korie Beth and Matt. Inside the box was a hand-knit scarf with a note saying, “We love you.” Korie (who is quite the accomplished knitter) made me a beautiful, unique, jewel-tone scarf. I started crying because I felt the tremendous love she managed to pack in a little yellow box; her creative gesture of yarn and needles replenished my utterly empty reserves at a time when I could not refill them myself, and that in my darkest hour something as simple as a scarf could remind me that I am not alone, and most importantly, that in the eyes of friends I have value.

A few days ago I fully realized today that my Lyme disease and accompanying tick-borne illnesses are back and using my body as their rejuvenation factory. That is not a happy thought, but after all the grief and stress of the last six weeks quite inevitable. (I have been waiting for this other shoe to drop since just after mom died on October 4th.) For when we are drowning in stress or overwhelming grief our immune systems can barely function; to wit, I believe the reason Lyme disease ultimately defeated me in August of 2004 is because my Grandmother, Cousin Don, and my beloved 17 year old cat Laertes all died within three months  of each other. These deaths rent my soul from my heart, debilitating me with anguish.

This morning, while imbibing coffee and vacantly staring at the television, I knew full well nothing substantive could be accomplished today. In that spirit, I opened Facebook and read friends’ posts, commenting on one about the parasite Babesia – one of the deleterious co-infections the microscopic, evil deer tick gave me in the late 1990s. Zoe Cassandra, one of my most recent Mills sisters, commented the following: “Just know that through your knowledge I was able to get the help I needed for the tick bites. I am so sorry you have to go through this, but you are one of the strongest women I know, especially when faced with distress. Sending you so much love.” Once again, remarkably out of the blue, at a time when I am sick, alone, and utterly overwhelmed, an angel has appeared to light the darkness in my heart and soul. 

We are imperfect beings, we simple humans, each broken, each wounded. We are not expected to be flawless or unblemished – as beings of flesh we cannot be. The only perfection to which I am privy is unconditional love. Some call this perfection God; some call it Yahweh, some Jesus, some Buddha Nature.  Regardless of name, I believe that which is Ineffable wants me to know that I am loved for, not despite, my brokenness and wounds. Sunday’s Flower Ministry delivery, Korie’s scarf, and Zoe’s Facebook post were each angels of unconditional love.

Blessed be the light bringers!

Call Me Intrepid

Yesterday was my Beloved Niece's 2nd birthday, and she came over to Grandma and Auntie's house to celebrate with a little dip in the pool!

Caroyln was fearless in the water, attempting to put her entire face in, pushing away from Aunta and Mommy to swim on her own, decisively wanting to be "Intrepid Pool Baby." Luckily, she has a former lifeguard for an Aunt, who watched her every move and taught her to blow bubbles. (Yes, at just two years old! I'm so proud.) Joy of water is genetic, passed on from my father, to me, to my niece. Whether Carolyn takes after her grandfather, skimming the surface with a blazing freestyle, or sinks like a stone a la Grandma Carmen, only time will tell.

Her joy expressed in simply splashing around reminded me of my own aquaphilia. I spent more than a decade of summers in my teens and twenties teaching children the joy of swimming and lifeguarding, getting awesome tans, racing sailboats, watching hot boys in wet bathing trunks... As adult responsibilities, i.e., pursuit of the glorious dollar, forced me to take jobs requiring pantyhose and non-swimming suits, I lost the glee of simply splashing around, being one with sun and water in summer's embrace. When did I lose my love of swimming? When did it become a chore instead of play? And most importantly, what other joys have I relegated to bothersome? Is such behavior quintessential to maturity, or is it giving in to life's demands?

All I ever want Carolyn to worry about poolside is whether she has enough sunscreen to protect her beautiful, precious face as she merrily swims and plays, safely and strongly. It is Aunta Laura's job to not only engender Carolyn's love of the water, but most importantly to teach Respect (with a capital R) for it. The catch to teaching swimming is to not let respect of the water become fear or boredom; there is enough of each in the world. Oh please, let swimming remain her joy!

I used to read incessantly; Lyme disease robbed me of that pleasure. Exercise? Lyme stymied that as well. Even doing a few laps with a kickboard yesterday left me dizzy and spent. There isn't one iota of my life that chronic illness hasn't raped or punished; finding joy is near impossible, and going for the brass ring is out of the question because I now get too dizzy and sick on the Merry-Go-Round. Blessedly, there is a source of abundant joy only 30 miles away, a two year old whose presence yesterday reminded me of one of the grandest joys of my childhood, taking "A little dip!" with Daddy.

So Carolyn - you wanna take a little dip with Aunta?

Happy 2nd Birthday, Carolyn

May 29, 2011

Thunder so deafening it shook the skin from my bones. The street below flooded with murky brown water, lapping effortlessly up and over the curbs, and the old clay storm pipes of East Lake Forest completely overwhelmed by the massive, sudden onslaught. Nothing man-made can keep pace with this storm. In this ominous darkness it feels like late evening.

At 12:10pm the National Weather Service issued a *severe thunderstorm warning* for our county, expiring at 12:53pm. For 40 minutes, we experienced an immense storm; the cats cowered beneath my bed while I braved the elements out on the balcony taking pictures of the rising street flood. By 12:50pm the bulk of the storm passed, the sky lightened a tiny bit, and the thunder far less injurious, a grumble rather than a shock wave. I wondered how the weather service could get the prediction of the severe weather passing to be so exact, almost to the minute. Amazing.

For most of my life weather reports were pure prognostication – a guessing game. The TV weatherman was only correct about half the time, and no one expected much from him. In my parents’ post WWI youth, weather predictions came from the Old Farmer’s Almanac. Now weather reporting is an elite science, with exact speed and rainfall totals issued long before the sky turns grey. Now I understand my late father’s fascination with “The Weather Channel” when cable TV first came along: a former Navy pilot could sit in his den and watch the weather unfold all over the world. Amazing!

We are utterly surrounded by technology today: GPS satellites track us to within our cars to within 10 inches, and radar watches low-pressure systems approach. Barometers are truly antiquated, just novelties. Radar was a product of WWII, and global positioning satellites a legacy Ronald Reagan’s “Star Wars” methodology in the 1980s. The space program gave us memory foam mattress toppers, freeze-dried food, and pens that write upside down.

My niece will never be a part of a world without technology, a world where one could truly escape to a different city or land and be out of touch. In the early 1980s there were no telephones in our dorm rooms; when a call came in the receptionist would page me over the intercom, and I would take the call at a central phone in the hallway; long distance was still a big deal back then. Today, girls at Mills use their Smartphone to activate a special keypad to enter their dormitories. Metal keys are as antiquated as Cathode ray tubes, being unreachable a grand faux pas to this young techno generation. Heaven forbid one should even try to get away from it all.

So far, this baby boomer is a friend of technology. I adore the computer, with its social networks keeping me almost palpably in touch with my friends and family in California. I could never have worked full time and gone to graduate school in the evenings without a PC at home on which to write papers and do homework. Today, I learn about my illnesses and share information with others – even staying in touch with my doctor 2,000 miles away. I am not alone, ever.

So dear Carolyn, know that your Aunta loves you bunches and that you will never be alone. I promise always to be just a Skype, email, or whatever technology next brings, away.