Monday Morning Mad

Just read about the immigration sweeps along the north east border region in this morning's New York Times and I'm spitting mad against the continued paranoia and abusive behavior of immigration officials who apparently routinely board trains and buses, wake up sleeping passengers with flashlights and demand proof of citizenship or legal status.  If you don't "look right" (read white) or have acceptable papers on you,  you are grilled and hauled off, according to many victims, witnesses and immigrant rights' advocates. Of course when questioned about the abuse of power and racial profiling, the usual denials are rock solid in defense of upholding the law and homeland security, blah blah blah. Sure, they'll probably catch some illegals, mostly tourists who have overstayed their visas, but NOT terrorists, folks ! If they were catching actual terrorists, it would make the headlines, right?

Arizona's laws are mild in comparison to what is going on up north. It gives new meaning to the term carte blanche (French for white card, blank sheet of paper) where authorites intepret law anyhow they please in the moment, with impunity.  Does this bring back memories of communist bloc or fascist regime oppression?  Step right up, get your free flashbacks...but wait we're HERE and NOW not there and not then,  or are we?  I had to check the dateline on the article twice.

The racial profiling gets to me particularly hard as I imagine authorities confronting my black haired brown eyed Eurasian-mix daughter if she were on a trip by herself to visit relatives in Canada. My blood boils to think of her completely defenseless in her befuddlement, being brain damaged and on heavy anti-seizure medication.  She's a legal citizen but DOESN'T LOOK WHITE, so if she couldn't answer properly or had forgotten her passport or other i.d, she'd be at high risk of being arrested and thrown away for weeks in detention, until her brother or I could track her down. Detainees are often held in centers across country, randomly isolated from family and community, and if released on bond, it is often in odd locations in the middle of the night. The horror of this scenario cannot be overstated. 

When will "America" accept  the FACT that this is not a "white" country (nor by the way a Christian country, different topic, I grant you) ?  It is a mix of everything under the sun and will always be that way.  The blatant Mighty Whitey Thinks He's Righty attitude disgusts me and I'm a whitey immigrant myself.    In reading the report, it is pretty clear that if I were on the same train or bus as a passenger with my daughter,  with my red hair and blue eyes, only one of us would likely be questioned.  The simple answer "Yes I'm a citizen" isn't something she could come up with because she's, how shall we put it nicely,  not as swift on her mental feet as most others.  Her response would probably be "what's a citizen?" I think of all the innocent victims inevitably caught by accident in these intrusive sweeps, conducted by obvious zealots, and my heart screams.   And don't think the developmentally disabled are immune from such harsh treatment !  The daughter of a friend, a citizen of a South American nation, who was visiting legally, and has Down's syndrome and is smart enough to handle traveling alone, was actually handcuffed and detained in a jail cell... enough said, another story.  Common sense and compassion are clearly not highly prized as qualifications among job applicants for immigration officials.

Sometimes I just want to pack a bag and get the hell outta here.  But then I sit down and wait until the feeling passes.  But I'm not able to sit still for long when I know this wonderful country that has been so good to us and millions of others,  has some ugly vicious thugs on the government's payroll, that I PAY FOR.  GRRRR.

Messing Up

When there's been an injustice of some kind, my other half has a standard remark: "That's messed up," he says and shakes his head.  His language is much cleaner than mine.  He tells me I need to work on that, by the way.  Much as I don't respond well to criticism, and think he could be right, this morning a friend and I decided we could write a book called "F-ing Up Out Loud" because we've been there and done that.  'Course, the publishers wouldn't use the f-word, they might even just use cute little asterisks for the first four letters, "****ing Up Out Loud"  which packs a nice visual punch.  People buy often buy books based solely on the cover or title - I certainly do.

Anyone could write a book like that if they were honest with themselves.  The stones we cast against ourselves are usually the biggest and most painful.  When I'm doing that, Larry tells me to put down the big hammer, just use the little one today.  Sounds like tool time for tots.  I know he's just trying to be kind when he sees I can't be.  His parents forgave him endlessly which was both a help and a hindrance perhaps, but my parents used searing wit to slice and dice the Bad Guys.  They wielded the big sword and the big hammer at everything.  Maybe it was just the Irish in them, always fighting. 

Public confession is a risky proposition but I believe it's ultimately healthy and helps others by letting them see they're not alone in their embarrassing behavior.  It's the belief that we are alone, that nobody cares about us, which creates the worst and most common cause of suffering.  Specifically though, my friend and I were examining our fears about being awful mothers, having ****ed up the lives of our most loved and adored family members by being stubborn, short-sighted and self-indulgent. It was not an easy conversation.

Our book wouldn't be a big seller at this early stage of its development.  So far  it would only have about two pages in it: an admission of guilt on one side and an appeal for forgiveness on the other.  We have yet to flesh it out with gory details of various escapades, and we may discover we haven't really got the guts for it and that innocent people might be harmed - which is the opposite of what we want to do any more.    But the title might sell and that's a good start.

Back to School Daze

I'M SO EXCITED I CAN HARDLY SIT DOWN LONG ENOUGH TO WRITE.  I've reconnected with my best friend from high school days thanks to facebook networking.  It feels SO good.  It's a validation of having had a past with people in it who actually cared about you and remember you !! My little ego has had a trip to the groomers and is strutting around all fluffed up like a perky poodle.

We last saw one another over 50 years ago and lost track for no good reason, just the gradual drifting and filling up  of time with new faces and places.  She called my parents years ago but didn't leave any contact information and they didn't think to ask and I was left gasping with frustration at my father's version of the phone call: "she asked if you were there, I said no and we hung up..."  I wanted to hang him up, from a high place, I can tell you.

Meanwhile, she's had four children and I've had three husbands.  We have a lot of catching up to do.
She said she was excited and told me she and another friend have been looking for me for years.  Wow. 

I'm celebrating by have three pieces of french toast for breakfast and too busy eating to write any more for today.    Watch this space.

The Joy of YES

A dear friend seems to be struggling.  I know better than to offer a hand or tissue because it's been made clear that those are neither welcome nor necessary.  When I repeat back the words I thought I heard this friend say, I am told, no, that's not what I said, or no, that's not what I meant to say.  I do my best to stick to words I heard, like a little old recorder.  Just the messenger, not the message.  But it doesn't seem helpful to be a playback recorder,  though who am I to judge?   I also nod and murmur that I am sorry for the pain, for the suffering I see.  Nodding is body language for, yes, yes, yes, I hear you and am not in disagreement with you.  Isn't that what we all want?

Will this friend be relieved of suffering because I nodded, who knows?  Oprah said once that what we all want in this world is to be heard, to be seen and to know that what we say matters to others.  That is the truth.  The question is who will be the first to give "yes, I see, hear and you matter" to the other?  If we wait for the other to see us first, sometimes the waiting becomes insufferable and we'd rather leave.  When we reach the point of being tired of leaving, what other choice is there now ?  I hope my friend chooses to be the first one to say yes, I see, hear, and yes your feelings matter, followed by unspoken or spoken "and I love you and promise to wait for you".  I want my friend to be happy, for the struggle to cease, for the rope of tug-o-war to be placed gently on the field of peace and for all concerned to walk in the light of love and beauty.  A yes is all it takes.

Joy of Rebelling

Standing up and saying "NO" is such a pleasure. It feels so good to take a stand and speak up. However, the fear of being hurt or being wrong or being opposed often stands in the way, so many of us cower in silence or mutter inside our own demented minds, and that's not such a grand feeling. When others refuse me, or defiantly oppose me, even that's a good thing in a way because I've realized that I admire gutsy people. Courage is a quality that's very attractive in others.

Somehow I feel more secure when I'm around a person who will say no, because it means they are clear about their position and I feel I can trust them to tell their truth. I don't always agree with their alternative perspective, but that's not the point. A friend told me a while back that she felt she could trust me because when she needed help to get to the ER after having a bad reaction to something she was eating in the restaurant we both happened to be in at the same time (with different people) I told her honestly that I couldn't do it and why. It created a bond of trust, she said, because she could see I was taking care of myself and to her, that's an important quality in a friend. I thought about that for a while after she told me this and I began to see the wisdom of that and today, our friendship is stronger.

I had a couple of no's recently and I didn't enjoy or appreciate them at first. I've started a new routine and thought I'd need support to keep it up. I created a new exercise plan in which I dance in my nightie in the living room. I worried that if I asked people to remind me or check up on whether I'd done it, they'd agree and forget or agree reluctantly and feel burdened, and none of that had much appeal, so I resisted asking for any support. I explained my dilemma to my loving partner who listened and told me reasons why he though one might not receive support, such as "I don't want to take responsibility for something you should be doing for yourself". That was disappointing, and I felt hurt and thought that would be the end of it. I was wrong.

Support came in a different way. When I was actually dancing and my sweetie happened to be home at the time, he agreed to join me on the rug for a twirl. We both had fun and said we should do it more often. Now I can see that his no wasn't about refusing me support, it was just his being honest about not taking on more responsibility. He knows how much he can handle and I don't. His type of support was active: he danced with me and we shared some fun. Verbal reminders are just not his thing. I'll take that no with more respect next time.

Selective Blend

Without their permission, I've taken the maternal liberty of including a photo of my son and daughter taken recently at a family wedding. As you may discern, they do not resemble me exactly and neither do they resemble their father exactly. They are, of course, in the middle. But since their father was Chinese and I'm Scots Irish, they have appeared in the world as a blend of both, which causes occasional confusion.

My daughter is short, dark, pretty, and freckled. She battles a tendency to plumpness with a food diary and exercise. My son is lanky, burns red in the sun, has strong, spikey auburn hair, inhales food with abandon, burning his calories efficiently, according to his own assessment. Both have the slender hands, feet and ankles of their father's family. Chopsticks were used before forks, and the first time my son ate a McDonald's french fry, he vomited.

Soon after we immigrated to the States, and when the children were still very young, my blue-eyed Pennsylvania Dutch neighbor, after a little too much wine, invited me to confess who the real father of my son was, because "it couldn't possibly be your husband". She even giggled over the bet she had with her husband that if they could only get me tipsy enough, I was sure to spill the beans. I'm not sure, nor did I care, actually, whether she believed me when I told her that, yes, indeed my red-haired, white-skinned son's father was the same as my dark- haired daughter's and the very same man I was married to. Innate people pleaser that I was at that time, I felt a little bad that I'd disappointed her, but a little horrified too, at her ignorance of the mysterious whim of dominant gene selection. Her own son had blond hair and blue eyes, despite the fact that her husband (and father of her child, which I never doubted) was from Iran and had black hair and dark brown eyes.

Nowadays, my daughter, never one to shy away from a moment of distinction, tells people who meet us for the first time that yes, she really is my daughter and not adopted, even though we don't look alike. Her pediatrician asked me at our first visit whether I knew if she had been breast fed as an infant. When I replied, yes, I had fed her myself, he blushed and stuttered a bit, realizing his misstep in presuming an adoption, based simply upon appearances. I suppose he just wasn't used to seeing mixed race patients unless the blend included African American, the most common, perhaps, at that time in the mid-seventies. Eurasian blends may have been a little exotic for that neck of the backwoods. The backwoods being a mere 20 miles north of San Francisco, by the way. I had imagined myself to be living in a progressive part of California and was shocked to learn otherwise.

With our president being bi-racial, the issue of mixed heritage has surfaced in a refreshing way and its about time. I bought two books on the subject recently: Mixed - Portraits of Multiracial Kids, by Kip Fulbeck, and a companion book by the same author, Part Asian-100% Hapa, published by Chronicle Books. They are small, easy to peruse like an album, with photo portraits of mixed race children and adults, with a few words of commentary by the subjects or family. I presented the one about kids to my daughter to keep her occupied while I had my turn at Scrabble yesterday. She usually has a hard time waiting for me, even though I cheat in her favor and keep the words very simple so she isn't overchallenged to the point of frustration. She struggles enough as it is. We stick to three or four letter words (only clean ones) and we're both less stressed that way. Last night, she couldn't wait for me to be busy with my rack while she seemed mesmerized by photos of kids who look alot like she does. She read the lists of each child's ancestry aloud, in her usual careful and deliberate monotone, which rose in pitch whenever it included Chinese, Scottish or Irish. "Just like me!" she crowed with delight. The book was far more engaging and relevant to her than our game of Scrabble, even though she was winning handily.

I remember the frustration of not finding her a doll that had brown hair and brown eyes when we lived in London for a year, when she was in kindergarten. She attached herself to what was available, a blue-eyed blondie. In later years, not surprisingly, she wanted to dye her hair blond, which I thought a shame as she has the most lovely dark tresses. One day, inevitably, she managed to sneak a dye job, and I have to admit she looked stunning ! She gave it up because of the expense, but not without pouting. She now has a reddish rinse on it, which these days is tame; I am only glad it's not the puce I saw on a young lady at church last week !

I know I can't and shouldn't control what she chooses to do with her appearance and mostly manage to keep my comments to myself. And it's not really her appearance per se that's a serious issue as much as what that represents to her and others of mixed race. Her main concern is having a sense of truly belonging and being accepted and I respect that. While few of us are truly satisfied with our appearance, we all long to know that we are viewed as equal members of society, and deserving of the respect and dignity everyone else is afforded. This becomes a bigger concern for those of mixed heritage whose experiences can often be alienating and painful. It usually starts when they are young and ill prepared to defend themselves.

Stereotyping is the culprit, fear and ignorance perhaps even more so. While statistics and studies reveal the fact that there are plenty of white drug dealers as well as black, and that numerous successful black business owners, living in large homes in safe neighborhoods with happy family lives do exist, or that indeed there are some Chinese kids who are hopeless at math, or who play in garage rock bands, ugly misperceptions persist.

Facts are supposed to be more powerful than fear, or so one would hope in a civilized society. When will we learn to look through appearances and see one another as part of the human race, each of us frail at times, strong at others? Maybe when there are more people like the president in positions of leadership, which might take a while. But sooner than that, when more mothers make playdates an opportunity to share with kids who look different from their own, or maybe when each person just decides to do it, it will happen.

Asking for Advice? Shut up and listen !

This morning, I confessed to a good friend that I was having difficulty asking for support with my, gag, gasp, strangle, e...e....ex....exercise program. I could hardly rasp out the e word. It's a touchy subject with me. I am so filled with resistance, resentment and ridiculous arguments that I'm worn out before I've changed out of my jammies.

I was sitting on the sofa, talking on the phone with this good friend, who's the type who gets up at 5am to go to the gym (notice how that rhymes handily with grim?) when I realized, too late, that this is the wrong type of person, friend or not, to have confessed to. Before I had a chance to whine about exactly why I was resisting, thereby postponing the arrival of the moment when I would actually move anything apart from my mouth, she was streaking ahead with a plan on resistance training and its importance for women our age. I started to say, yes, resistance actually IS the problem, but she burbled on about buying stretchy bands, and how many reps and what is the best position... and well, you may imagine where my mind went, because I can't remember most of what she said. I started to suspect that she wasn't really listening to what I was really asking for. I wanted support not advice on what program to use. Support means to me that I tell you what I'm struggling with and then you ask how exactly I'd like the support, and then I tell you, then you actually do it. Right? Apparently not.

I brought the same subject up to my sweetie, and told him that I was having trouble asking for support for something, without saying what that something was. I said I was struggling with asking because I was afraid people would say yes, then resent doing it and our relationship would somehow be affected negatively, or they'd say yes then forget to do it, or worse, talk me out of needing their support by telling me it wasn't their responsibility to do for me what I should be doing for myself. All of these things have in fact happened before and I just don't want to go through it again. His response was along the lines of the responsibility thing. We ended up arguing a bit and I'd like to think he changed his mind, as I explained further that if it was something I could have handled by myself I wouldn't still be struggling with it. Anyhow, it got complicated.

Another response (aka slap on the wrist) from the fitness freak friend was a reminder that if I expect negative results, that's what I'm going to get. Right, that's why I'm afraid to ask, because of all the negative experiences I've already had. Does this mean I should ask other people, get new friends and family? Or just shut up and listen?

It's becoming clear, that if I make a request, others are obviously going to interpret it a certain way, most likely one that differs from my original intention. So I'll just have to shut up and listen to them. Doesn't mean I'll be doing what they say though. It'll just be a way of maintaining relationship with that person, and realizing we have completely different ideas about what I mean by support.

So, here's exactly what I want: someone to just ask me in a funny, or gentle and loving way whether or not I made time to dance in my nightie in the living room today? That's my chosen aerobic activity, by the way, because I can do it easily and it's fun and it's a start. If it isn't fun, I just won't do it, period. The stretching and pulling thing will be nice to add later, when I'm on a bit of an endorphin high from panting through a hot salsa number, but for now I just want to be the twirl girl and I'd like anyone who cares about me to check in about it, regularly. I suppose I am really asking for a demonstration of caring about what I'm doing, whether it's exercise or not. Bingo, methinks. Pause for blushing and hanging of shameful head.

Now I'm also seriously reviewing how I give support to others, when they ask me. Do I listen carefully? Do I take the trouble to ask them what exactly I can do or say that would be helpful?
Or am I going to run ahead with my own agenda, having diagnosed their problem and decided what they should do about it? Ouch.

Walkie Talkie

Nothing tickles my joy so much as time with a good friend where we open up and tell it "like it is" while on a pleasant walk through a charming neighborhood where the white picket fenced front yards are fragrant with lilies and roses. Imagine this delight made sweeter by warm summer evening air and post sunset golden light. Just a little walk before dinner in a local hotel where the yard fence is decorated with summer straw hats and there's a statue of a poodle at the front door. After dinner, tea comes in an elephant shaped pot and crisp caramel topped creme brulee is delicately served in an espresso coffee cup. The server is discreetly non-intrusive and mindfully attentive. My friend is a regular and obviously well-liked and I was a grateful, admiring tagalong.
We caught up with each others' news, talked about books and movies, shared concerns and joys and when it was over, I could hardly believe that four hours had flowed so effortlessly, in fact timelessly. It was the perfect gal pal date, the kind of evening that makes me glad to be a woman because I couldn't honestly imagine the same effortless experience with a man where somehow there's always the zigzag of ego, a contest, a question about the future, and yes, even sex implied or otherwise. No offense to my sweetie of course, but if all our time together could be as smooth as my chick date, I'd love him even more perhaps.

Holy and Sacred or Unwhole and Scared?

Beautiful churches are nothing new to me. Old hat, ho hum, there goes another marble column, yawn. Growing up in London and getting yanked through major art galleries and museums when I was too young to appreciate them and without any guidance, mind you, my eye was assailed with levels of beauty that set such a high bar, it's been hard to impress it since. The wonders of Venice, Rome, Florence, Japan and Moscow, in my early adult years seemed like nothing to write home about. I was already jaded by the big, glorious, grand, ancient, gold, marble, height. Thanks anyway.

On the living room and bedroom walls at home my mother hung small framed reproductions of her favorite paintings, had a couple of plaster busts of famous classical composers on the mantlepiece. Music and art surrounded me. It was just an every day part of life, I thought nothing about it, took it for granted completely, later scorning the classics for modern and a little embarrassed that we had only reproductions instead of originals, freakin' little snob that I was becoming.

I also remember feeling tired quite often as I slogged through museums on rainy summer school vacation days and I was probably hungry too. Eating wasn't something I did more than once or twice a day, as a result of tight budget at home and my own laziness about cooking. I have since learned that when one is tired and hungry, life's impressions sit differently on the dusty cushion of one's perception. As a teen, I trolled through galleries and museums mostly to fill time, quell boredom. I found myself looking more at the other people than the exhibits. At that time I used the word beautiful almost exclusively to describe clothes, women or scenery. ( The Swiss alps still top my list for natural splendor.) Beauty was strictly relegated to visual experiences where I was still very focused. And eventually, the pains real life began to seep through the surface and I had to learn to grow up.

I began to seek refuge in churches when my soul began hurting, finding comfort in the familiar designs and smells of the interiors, whether the church was in London, Singapore or Northern California. Just sitting there and not talking to anyone, I silently wept, longing for a sense of connection with something to assuage my profound despair and suffering from inevitable disappointments, loss, deprivation and cruelty. It was only then that I opened to the true aspect of beauty, that which brings with it a deep peace.

In the London of my early years, paintings of religious scenes from the Italian Renaissance were nothing more to me than framed wall coverings in a gallery. I simply didn't care for images of Jesus, Mary or any of the saints and martyrs. Now though, blue robed images of Mary holding the baby Jesus could set me off on a weeping binges that relieved much grief, though I didn't know then that tears were a sign of pain that is being healed. But even without that Universal Eternal Mother figure's presence, the lacy linens, flowers, candles, dark wood panels and pews, marble floors, columns, touches of gold, deep reds and blues in stained glass windows. all of these soothed the ache. In their midst, I transformed from scared to whole for a while. The musky fragrance of incense can still do that for me; it makes the inner and outer places feel somehow more holy and my nerves (as my mother used to say) settle for a few moments.

I expected that by this stage in life I'd be "settled and secure" meaning that I'd have been with a loving partner in a longterm career marriage; you may recognize that only-in-the-movies ideal, where the woman is wife and mother, revered for her homemaking skills and is the heart center of the household, while the devoted husband and children live successful careers outside the home, to which they return regularly with respect and affection, reporting on their accomplishments with confidence and cheer. The ideal wife and mother glows, feeling somehow that her life has not been lived in vain. All the scrubbed floors, ironed shirts, baked pies and Sunday roast dinners have amounted to something after all. Perhaps you do, but I don't actually know anyone who has that type of life. Yet in some part of my worldly mind, it's something I think I should have created for myself and have failed at. I realize now how I continue to punish myself for this failure. And, well, it hurts too much, and I'd like it to stop.

Tomorrow, a close friend is flying off to Italy, home of Renaissance religious art and as I think of her whizzing through guidebook destinations, bargaining for souvenir trinkets, scribbling postcards, reporting that everything is just wonderful, will I secretly envy her or will I know that I can stay home and enjoy the same beauty from my desk side, without having to go through the hoopla of airports and jet lag, foreign currency and language barriers ? I'm not sure yet, but
sometimes it's really nice to have " been there and done that" and let it go. Confession, in or out of the church feels good.

If it's too good to be true?

Now what? I was googling away on behalf of a friend, checking out the cost of a book I recommended to her when lo and horrors behold, I find the book title with the word scam attached and a list of articles about online money making scams. I clicked on all the links, trying to silence the chorus of I-told-you-so's, but so far, have nothing conclusive to report about the book in question. I can report, however, that I've developed a sense of rattle in my gut. And what fun is that ? My fun bunny got shot at and is quaking under the covers, and I don't blame it. I'm wheedling as fast as I can, but it won't budge.

To be completely honest, now that I look back on it, there was a chapter in the book that got the rattle rocking a wee bit. It was the one where the leader of a group calls everyone together, drives them into the woods in the middle of the night and with no warning, abandons two of them, who are always sniping at one another, in the belief that they will find their way home and in the process overcome their differences. If you can't get along in the group, she says, you can't get along in the outside world. Which might well be true, but that wasn't what upset me so much as the idea of a trusted leader pulling such a dangerous power trip on unsuspecting women she's hoping will survive to thank her and succeed in the group in future. Bear in mind that one of the women is a young single mother whose child is a mere baby, the other, an out of shape middle aged widow in high heels fergawdsake ! My gut started wanging so loudly by this point in the chapter, that I exhaled loudly enough to cause honeybun next to me to mumble in his sleep. Even he knew something was up.

I haven't found any hard evidence that the advice in this book has been found scam worthy, YET, but my fun bunny's whiskers are twitching, and I want to pay attention. Watch this space.

Darling

Prejudice, contempt prior to investigation is a blight I want out of my life. I didn't fully realize how tarnished my joy had become by this insidious and corrosive attitude until something happened yesterday and I woke up.

It began years ago when I overheard my parents talk about "them" and I learned about "us and them". We, of course were always better than "them". "They" were responsible for all the suffering in the world and "we" were the victims. "They" incorporated a long list of aggressors and general villains such as "the government", "modern medicine", "the Tory party", "the rich", "landlords", "the English". There were others but I can't recall the whole list now. What is the most important realization for me today is that prejudice is a learned attitude, along with its uglier big brother, contempt. Contempt has stalked my unconscious mind as closely as my own shadow is attached to my feet.

What I heard yesterday, jumped from the speaker's lips into my deepest hiding spot, wherever that is, and jolted me for the next two hours. A guest on a tv show was describing how a child, in order to show love for a parent and elicit love and approval from a parent in return will mimic the parent's behavior and attitude in the belief that "if I'm just like my mommy/daddy then I will be loved and they will feel loved". And so it is I began to recognize the ways in which I still mimic my parents, bless them. I know they spoke what was truthful for them, believing that the suffering of the world is caused by specific individuals and groups, and there may be much truth in some of that. The villains may change their spots and my opinion about who's a villain is also subject to change and if something is subject to change, it cannot be held to be an absolute truth. What is worse, however, is the teaching of contempt for anyone or anything. I was taught to be kind and tolerant of only certain groups, the "Us" and stand up and fight against the others, "them", those in power who were abusive and insensitive to the needs of others. Now, I am glad to know that there are times when one must do this important work, taking up arms if necessary and perhaps there is such a thing as The Good Fight or a Just War. History can argue those points better than I. But I am very sorry that I have suffered for so long by holding an attitude of contempt because I have held myself in contempt for some time now over things done and things left undone. And it is no way to live. It is a painful and cruel way to treat anyone. So, as an act of love towards myself today I am going to call myself Darling all day, and tell myself nice things, praise myself for all the extra effort and accomplishments that I will make today. I'm already looking forward to the new me. But first, take a little nap darling, you look tired.

All Flash and no Cash?

For years now I've comforted myself by feeling superior to people who focus on making money, as if somehow it's dishonorable to want to be financially successful. It's a throwback to the days when our impoverished but smart and savvy family was held in place by the beliefs of an outdated class system. People were supposed to "know their place" and we were judged worthy or otherwise depending on our accent, education, manners, and probably other criteria I was unaware of back then. Times they are a-changin' and the clatter of shackles being cast off is music to my ears.

I've confused wealth with greed. I've confused wealth with snobbery. I've confused wealth with social injustice. I've confused wealth with aggression. I've been confused about wealth for a long time.

Recently I received a book called "Cash in a Flash" which is the first book of its kind that has actually enthused me. I didn't go out and force myself to buy it, it was part of a gift included in the price of a retreat I attended a few months ago. I was attracted to the retreat and the retreat answered many unidentified desires. I spent plenty of cash during my stay there as there were several independent vendors plying their trade, including clothes and hats for which I have a great affection - I was going to write "weakness" but that is no longer how I view my extreme appreciation for creative style expressed as artistic body wear. I began, in my old way of thinking, to feel guilty about my "self indulgence" and suffered what is sometimes called buyers' remorse, though the purchases are a source of great pleasure and I haven't gone bankrupt. It's like peeing all over new shoes.

The book and its wisdom was distributed to a few thousand individuals and I have no way of knowing how many of us will actually not only read the book but act on the plan outlined.
The action part is often the greatest challenge for me, but I know I am up to it, more than ready for it. It's not even a challenge that I'm afraid might hurt, it's the kind of challenge that has my mind rubbing its little hands together, anticipating something simply great. Maybe, like yours, my mind loves some challenges and despairs over others. This time, we can't wait to get going, like a puppy recognizing shoes and leash as signals for playtime outdoors, where the good smells are.

The flash of realization that I am actually ready, willing and able to move ahead after years of doldrums only sets my pace at a higher rate. Wealth is something I actually already possess, because it's not a thing, it's an attitude about what already exists. I have a wealth of resources in the form of ideas, friends, contacts, love, not to mention a stunningly gorgeous wardrobe to go with. So stand by for cash flow reports, because my buckets are lined up.

Guardian Angel? Get in line.

Once in a while you think you're having a bad day and then you watch someone else's day dissolve into chaos and realize how grateful you are that it's just not your turn, but when it is, you hope your angels are watching and come to the rescue. Two days ago I witnessed both the dissolving and the angels appearing.

I happened to be trapped in my car, accidentally I must add, by the premature hosing down of my car at the local rehab/halfway house weekend $5 carwash deal. The guys who do the washing take turns, divvy up the take at the end of the day, look like they've been lifting weights in a prison yard for a while, or something similar. Mostly young, stripped down for the carwash, they smoke between cars, have a radio on full volume blasting rap and hiphop. Customers are usually repeat locals willing to help out the guys and get a great but inexpensive hand wash on their car. I go a couple of times a year at most and this was one of my days. Being trapped in the car I decided to enjoy just sitting there while the guys did their sudsy rub down on the car and I indulged a fantasy of myself being massaged and gently washed, while listening to my own public radio station. All of a sudden, for no reason I could think of, I was compelled to check my rearview mirror and watched as a car turning into the driveway of the carwash was rear ended by another car which had swerved hard but not quickly enough. The noise of the impact had all the guys on red alert, like a herd of zebra when a lion lopes onto the scene, their heads flicked up as one, and they slowly moved up to the cars, checking things out.

I turned off my radio, stepped out of the still wet and sudsy car and walked along with the guys to see if there was anything I could do to help. I recognized one of the drivers, a friend, who was trying to get information from the other driver, a young guy, wearing a shirt, tie and well pressed pants as if on his way to church or a job interview, who was pacing and holding his hands to his head in despair. His car, an expensive German import had its hood buckled into a sharp A and oil was flooding the ground underneath it. My friend's car had a hole gouged in the steel bumper and the rear wheel well had buckled onto the back tire and she was trying, now, to wrench it free so she could drive the car without stripping the tire. She was in a state, but didn't realize it. She didn't have her glasses, wasn't writing or reading numbers accurately, had written down the date of her insurance policy instead of the number of the policy, thought it had expired, was leaving a message for her husband to come and help, and all in a calm voice. But I knew she wasn't herself. "Oh, it's you, I can't believe it." She seemed relieved to see a friendly face.
I told her to take a breath, gave her a hug, rubbed her back a little and told her it was all going to be ok. "You're an angel, an angel" she kept saying. I didn't feel like one, but I was glad to be there.

Meanwhile the guys in their shorts and bare tops were talking to the young guy, walked him over to their rest area, lent him a cell phone so he could call his girlfriend, and told him everything would be ok. They were being angels to the guy, whether they knew it or not. Turns out the guy had just been released from jail that morning, was borrowing his girlfriend's car, and now this. Turns out he also was driving on a suspended license and her insurance was only month to month, so the story isn't over yet. But it'll turn out all right. Nobody was seriously injured, some serious lessons were to be learned, no doubt, but for those of us who were hand holding and back rubbing, the lesson was also clear. It was just our turn that day to be on one side of the mess, tomorrow it might be different.