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Moving picture windows

Thanks for tuning in to the second half of this story -it is not exactly an easy one to tell but I do feel it is important to share. Hopefully, my tale will help someone who is dealing with loss of a loved one and the overwhelming grief that comes with it.  As you have read, I was safely tucked in the back of a car on the way to Yosemite with two incredibly supportive women  -great writers both and unutterably kind. Though we had buckets of alcohol in the back, I sipped a single mimosa slowly and wondrously. Champagne is celebratory and I marveled I would be drinking it again as I slipped and slid around in what I had come to think of as "My Slough of Despair." I considered feeling guilty about  it but I pictured Robert looking down upon me and saying."That's my hen. Look at her go." In my imaginings, he would be highly amused at the slightly absurd sight of our boozy and bookish cabal zooming up the side of a mountain in a stretch limo. It might have amused me, too, except I had forgotten how to laugh. 

The beautiful scenery passed by my window at 60 mph and was soothingly meditational. Gorgeous flowering fields, wild weedy meadows, turning into a vast sentry of trees marching to Yosemite. We picked up a couple more writer riders along the way.  I  mumbled just enough niceties to get by before I turned back to the moving picture window that had become my escape.  I was curled in the very comfortable back corner when, to my dismay, we suddenly arrived at the lodge and I was forced to emerge into actual daylight and try to pass as a human being.  There was a big crowd at the check-in desk which delayed simply checking into my room. Finally, I was handed keys and ushered into a spacious room with a view and my very own balcony overlooking a meadow leading into a forested path.  The path was a lure.  It called to me silently and seductively.

This being a conference, nearly every moment was scheduled. I had 20 minutes to myself before the first meet and greet. I flung my suitcase in a corner, kicked off my boots and had a good cry for exactly 15 minutes allowing 5 for Visine, facewash, make-up and costume change. 

Next installment- I finally meet Nick Belardes

Just Keep Putting One Foot in Front of the Other

A book came out today that means a lot to me- Random Obsessions: Trivia You Can't Live Without. It is by Nick Belardes, a brilliant fellow if ever there was. Just looking at the quirky, colorful cover makes me smile and remember how I met "The PT Barnum of Bakersfield."

It was nearly two years ago and I was in a bad state. My long-term boyfriend had finally succumbed to the cancer he had been fighting. I was in a fog, very numb and sort of sleepwalking. I had committed to speaking at a Writers Conference and, while it seems pretty unimaginable that  I would be able to even talk, let alone form full sentences, I did like the idea of being at a beautiful retreat lodge at Yosemite. I felt it might be healing if  I could just get through my obligations and then walk in the woods and be with nature in one of the most beautiful places in the world. The gracious organizers offered me an out but I said I thought I could certainly meet with writers and offer basic publishing wisdom. Looking back , it seems kinda crazy even to me but I held onto my "chop wood, carry water," notion that small tasks could distract me, keep me busy, and keep me out of the fetal position I resumed when alone.

 I took the train to Fresno and cried the entire way. I was reading "The Other Boleyn Sister" and I could get through a few pages, place the book in my lap, sob for a time, repeat.  I had planned to nap but I was a bit worried that I had made a HUGE mistake in attending the conference and was going to embarrass myself and make people uncomfortable with the mess I regularly dissolved into.

Upon arriving at Fresno Amtrak, I was picked up by the lovely Hazel Dixon Cooper, author of "Born on a Rotten Day"and Cosmo's Bedside Astrologer.  She was a dear and had a good stock of tissues for me and snacks for the road. We then met literary agent June Clark and climbed into a limo that swept us away enroute to Yosemite. The limo also had a good stock of liquor of which we availed ourselves heartily. Was I distracted? You bet! We chattered amiably and I noticed I could go AN ENTIRE MINUTE without thinking about Robert's death.

I looked at the beautiful scenery passing by the windows of the stretch limo (soon dubbed "The Boozemobile") and I thought to myself. "This just might work out after all."

100% Discount Shopping

My "shopping bone" is broken. It broke long before the recession so I was already living fairly frugally. I admit to having been a shopper with Saturdays spent at Needless Markup (Neiman Marcus) for sales and Macy's and even Target and cute little boutiques with irresistible one-of-a-kind items that garner compliments and kvelling. But, a few years ago, I simply lost all interest in shopping. I would like to think it is some higher planetary awareness but that's not it. So, I took to turning down those Union Square shopping sprees with myriad excuses, finally admitting to my broken and apparently unhealed bone. Don't get me wrong, I still have a few weaknesses such as books, music, plants for the garden and scented candles.

With clothes, I call myself a "camel shopper" and shop once a year for clothes when my friends start complaining about seeing certain frocks a few too many times or when I need to look passable for an out-of-town convention. I go into the stores with a list go straight to the needed sections, moving quickly and efficiently.

Street shopping is a whole different ball game -furniture I see on the sidewalk calls to me with a siren's siren. I explain to people who might be riding with me that my ten year old convertible Mustang, Shadowfax, is like a truck -just put the top down and place the bookcase, chair, nightstand, or what-have-you in the back and drive away. I LOVE to rescue these finds and take them home to sand, repaint, gild, and filigree away. Half of my furniture are foundlings - glistening with gold leaf, copper leaf, and reupholstered with good quality fabric scraps. People think they are fine antiques and maybe one day, they will be.

For now, though, they seat my friends, hold my clothes, provide a place for memorable dinner parties and give me a great feeling of satisfaction that I can create beauty and comfort in a creative way for me and my loved ones. No amount of pounding the pavement and pillaging malls can give you that.

Look for beauty everywhere -it is there just waiting to be seen.

The Philosopher's Stone

Here is a rock so rare, it is extraterrestrial! Moldavite is the only known gem-quality crystal that comes from outer space.  About twenty million years ago, there was a meteor shower in the Czech Republic’s Moldau Valley, leading to the only known occurrence of moldavite to this day.  As a medieval scholar, I find the association with the legend of the Holy Grail and moldavite to be of utmost importance.  For one, Excalibur, King Arthur’s sacred sword, was supposedly forged from the iron of a meteorite.  In Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival, the grail is a lapsit exillis (stone out of the heavens).  Many other theories equate moldavite with the philosopher’s stone, the long-sought source of wisdom for all alchemists, and it is even thought to perhaps be the sacred stone of Islam in Mecca, the center of the Muslim faith.

            As such, moldavite is widely believed to be one of the stones that will help humans evolve.  I had heard miraculous stories about moldavite that, quite frankly, I didn’t believe until my friend Bill  loaned me the book Moldavite: Starborn Stone of Transformation, by a couple, Robert Simmons and Kathy Warner.  Upon reading this book, I grew so curious; I felt I had to get some moldavite.  Kathy Warner wrote of her immediate spiritual connection and growth from the stone and how it helped her to trust in the universe enough to open a crystal shop, Heaven and Earth, in Gloucester, Massachusetts, with no money, no plan, a few rocks, and a lot of faith.  I was also struck by the episodes in which the authors told of customers that came in, browsed their shop, and often had incredible encounters with the bottle-green tektite.  Kathy even named the physical reaction the moldavite flush.  People sweated, turned red, and either laughed or cried.  But what really made me curious was Robert’s story of how he had no reaction at all to the moldavite for many months and then, after patient medication; he had a magnificent spiritual awakening.  Robert’s story appealed to the skeptic in me.  What if I got some moldavite and it had no effect on me?  Well, just in case, I could take comfort in Robert’s long-delayed epiphany. 

            So the same friend who alerted me to the moldavite went to The Sword and The Rose on Carl Street in San Francisco, got a lovely green silver, and brought it back to me while I was at work.  I took it out of the bag and touched it, noticing how it felt rather like a piece of textured plastic.  Bill looked at me with that charming grin of his and a twinkle in his eye and told me that he had gotten some moldavite for several of our friends.  He seemed excited.  Bill was a moldavite initiate, and just having it around had already made me happier.  For himself, he had gotten a moldavite pendant, and he showed me how he could also wear it as a headband.  I noticed that the moldavite rested on the exact spot of Bill’s third eye.  I didn’t really feel anything except that it did rapidly pick up the heat from my hand, and seemed to hold the heat.  Anyway, I felt rather disappointed that I didn’t have a reaction like those I had read about in the book Moldavite.  I was, after all, hoping to feel exhilarated and ecstatic.  Who wouldn’t?

            The next day, I was to go to my own birthday party at a place in San Francisco’s Chinatown called Li-Po, named for the great drunken Chinese poet.  Apart from being a bit grimy, the bar is a re-creation of a Buddhist shrine set in a cave with lanterns, incense, and many sacred icons, including some fabulous Buddhas.  I was looking forward to my party but was also worried about the deadline on this book, feeling stressed, and, as always, more concerned about my friend’s happiness than my own.

             That morning, I woke up feeling a bit odd and couldn’t go to the office to write.  For four months, I had worked seven days a week; I had assigned myself a strict per-day count, and if I didn’t make my word minimum, I would beat myself up and increase that incredible pressure on myself.  I had planned to work all day and then go to the party.  By midafternoon, I felt hot and uncomfortable, I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate on anything.  By the evening, I was in the midst of a full-fledged fever and was nearly delirious for two days straight.  I missed several days of work. I simply had to give in to my body and let it all go.  I heard the party was fun and everybody got along great.  For me, an almost compulsively social, not attending my own birthday party was unthinkable.  Interestingly, it happened and there was no catastrophe.  But, the big news was that I had put my health and myself first.

            Afterward, I felt clear, and somehow lighter.  Even though I was tragically far behind on all my various projects and duties, I wasn’t worried.  I knew they would get done in good time. 

            A thought had flickered through my feverish mind as I lay in bed unable to lift the remote control to adjust the TV – could that have the moldavite?  It seemed like a silly idea, and I figured I had just caught a flu that came on very suddenly.  I had left Robert and Kathy’s book on my writing desk at my office and I figured I would reread the moldavite encounters section to see if anyone had had similar reactions.  Here is what found as I paged through this book: “Also for many people, there seems to be a cleansing process involved.  Here the moldavite energies go first where there are blockages.  When these have been release, there usually follows a pleasant lightness of emotion.”

            I have gone on to read many stories of people who at first felt ill or felt like they opened a door into a new reality.  Others quit jobs made them miserable, got out of toxic relationships, moved across the country, and made other fairly drastic changes.  Whatever the change may be, moldavite transforms with no turning back and absolutely no doubt.

            I kept my moldavite crystal on my writing desk to accompany me during the transformative journey of writing this book.  I plan to further explore the outer reaches of my moldavite revolution through meditation.  I am ready to shed a lot of old habits, old possessions, old ideas, and old ways of being that no longer serve me.  I want to grow in consciousness and cleanse my “doors of perception.”

            I urge you to do the same!

Invisible Rescue

This week has been odd, perhaps because of in incident that occurred Sunday night. I just can't stop thinking about it, in fact. 

 I visited Z Budapest Sunday, who has had successful surgery on her hips and a very long stay in the hospital. (I will add, though, that she had a fantastic view from her gurney -a panorama of the East Bay with the scary beautiful Mormon Temple anti-Disney castle right in the center.) We chatted, talked book ideas, and watched 60 Minutes wherein the Bernie Madoff whistleblower was laying out just now lame the SEC, even scarier than Mormon fortresses! Then Alice Waters caressed vegetation in an erotic way during prime time whilst an emaciated bucket of botox stood uncomfortably by. Z and I tried to guess Alice Waters sun sign; Z felt Aquarius or Pisces, and I opined her to be an earth motherly Cancerian who just wants everybody to eat their veggies. (I'll get back to you on this, I promise. ) A nurse wandered in and out, somewhat aimlessly, wanting to kick me out and really not enjoying our New Age natterings. She did manage to bad vibe me out of the hospital around 8:30 pm and I drove away, contemplating the eroticism of certain mushrooms, and made my way out of downtown Oakland toward Berkeley. 

As I drove slowly down San Pablo thinking about the bills I had to pay and deciding whether I could get by one more day without doing laundry, a little black car with a ravenhaired man and black dog came zooming across San Pablo, heading toward me and Shadowfax, my car. I braked but had nowhere to go, as plunging onto a pedestrian-filled sidewalk seemed an even worse idea. I braced for impact, figuring Shadowfax would be totalled and maybe me, too.  But somehow, in some way I just can't figure out, his car made an impossible 90 degree angle turn when it was inches away and missed me. I was gasping in shock as was everyone who saw it. The black car zipped away; I noticed the dog sitting in the front seat seemed unconcerned by it all. I contemplated chasing the car but I was really too scared to move or breathe or blink. In my mind's eye, it seemed like an unseen hand (albeit a large one) batted the car away.

I know that sounds crazy and that's okay. I finally got the nerve to drive the remaining dozen or so blocks to my house.  I was shaking and sheet-white. I practically crawled up the stairs. Shards of thoughts rattled around my brain -was it Robert? Do I have a guardian angel, even though I don't believe in them. I settled on a thought I could live with for the night, that "the universe" cut me slack because of the hospital visit. But,  I keep wondering what happened.

What do YOU think?

A Lower Haight Life Lesson

Your Differences Are Your Greatest Assets

When I first moved to foggy California, my best friend Kimberly and I had driven straight from West Virginia and crossed the country in only three days. We took turns driving our beat-up little car; I would sleep while Kim took a shift and vice versa. I remember being aggravated that I couldn’t get her to wake up and see the Great Arch of St Louis as we hurriedly drove by, the first rays of the morning sun glinting and sparkling all around us. The next night, I remember feeling immensely grateful she was a deep sleeper as we almost slid off the road at 3 am in an unseasonal Rocky Mountain blizzard. We didn’t have money for hotels so we two hicks hastened to what we knew was surely the land of milk and honey. Kim’s friend, Jeff Westbrook, lived in San Francisco and we were promised a basement floor with two pieces of foam for sleeping. In other words, paradise!

Our hosts, themselves Appalachian expats, had transformed themselves into glamorous urban creatures of enormous sophistication –long dyed-black hair, black jeans, vintage garb, piercings in odd places. It was very exciting and extremely intimidating, all at the same time. My first day, I was actually wearing a blue gingham patchwork dress, pretty chic for back home, which I now realized was not even good enough for a pillowcase in San Francisco. I was also shocked to discover the cost of living and what it would take to get by. I felt like an utter hayseed. Kimberly wasn’t feeling well and took to her foam. So, I was left to get to know Jeff, his cool girlfriend, and the punk rock band that lived at 808 Haight and practiced in the basement (Turns out the foam was excess sound proofing.) They were very nice but I could see the pity in their eyes as they extracted tales of growing up on a dirt road and my whole life story of about 90 seconds. They had lived in the largest city in West Virginia, so my farm girl accent was pretty pronounced, even to them. They were very kind and patient and took me out and around to parties and their regular hangouts. Upon being introduced around, people invariably commented on my accent and seemed terribly amused by it.

The $500.00 I had saved for the move was rapidly evaporating and I was realizing I needed to get a job as quickly as possible. I walked to the financial district to save the bus fare and applied for a temp job. As luck would have it, I got placed and started working the same day for Morgan Stanley, a fancy financial outfit. Relieved to have work, I threw myself into it and filed, answered phones, typed memos, and ran errands. I would have scrubbed the floor if anyone has asked. Interestingly, my newly arrived Appalachian Alien status seemed to be helpful at my new job. They didn’t even seem to notice my fashion failures and we quickly fell into comradely routines with quick lunches, not too much chat but just enough, and I felt like I belonged. As receptionist and all around office helper, I spent a lot of time on the phone and a funny thing happened- stockbrokers from New York and the like, seemed to LIKE my funny accent. Once I had that figured out, there was no stopping me, I was an out-and-proud hayseed! I confess to “working it” and finding my dirt-road origins to be an unfailing asset in business and in every other part of life. I now work in The Lower Haight, about a block from the famous foam-filled basement. I made a little movie with my fellow expats, “Lower Haight Holler” in which we celebrate being hicks in the city. I learned to not only appreciate but to treasure that what made me different was one of my greatest strengths.