busy

I stay busy.

Sometimes that is the answer, and sometimes it is the question.

My busyness passes the time, with actions which seem necessary and important, but which are neither necessary nor important.

Time Passes. Busy Happens. I barely have time to reflect upon the closing of a day, when another begins.

When I was young, Time was in a box, a detailed box with gold leaf, holding promise and the unknowable, sitting closed upon my dressing table, patiently waiting.

Now, it is a beautiful bird soaring above me at speeds I can’t approach or understand.

When I was young, Time was an idea. As I age, Time has become real, tangible, and touchable.

It never leaves me. It waits for me while I sleep, watches me through my day, tucks me into bed each night.

As I ride the bird, I can see behind me, and sometimes I catch glimpses of the up-ahead.

I know how this will ultimately turn out. There is no turning back.

Until that time, there is only Awake. Busy, Open, Awake.

review: the lovely bones

About a month or so ago, I watched a movie that affected me deeply, daily. For nearly a month I was filled with a new awareness, new eyes. I was changed by what I saw.

The Lovely Bones opened my eyes to another facet of human behavior and experience I had never given much thought to. That is, though I am saddened and disheartened by the thought of murdered children, war, and the heartache of life, this movie placed me inside the heart and mind of a murdered adolescent female in a very personal way.

I saw the movie four times, so moved was I by the presentation. I had read the book, but the movie succeeded in a way that the book did not. For me, the book took off on tangents that distracted me from the only thing that really interested me, which were the thoughts and experiences of the main character.

The movie skipped all the distracting features of the book, and concentrated on the girl’s reaction to her experience, as well as the family’s reactions to losing a daughter in the bloom of her life.

There was one scene in particular that really opened my eyes to the loss of these young lives, and the secondary loss that occurs as they fade from our memories.

In this particular scene, all the victims of the movie’s serial killer appear in a field, a bountiful field of heaven, where they live forever together, nurturing and loving each other. Bonded by a terrible and pointless fate, they turn from earthly desire to each other, even as they know they will fade ever so quickly from our awareness.

At once I realized – yes, it was true - I had forgotten them. Until that moment I did not realize that I had never really thought about the victims of serial killers. True, they have been stories to me, faces on the news, but they have been sad, distant. Pictures of lost children on milk cartons.

But at that instant, I was struck with a knowledge and understanding I had never perceived before: first, they lose their lives, followed swiftly by another loss: they lose us. They fade from our collective memory, they fade from our view, as the earth turns, days follow days, and we move on.

It is a reminder to me to Be Aware of each precious person, even as we swim in a sea of predators in a dangerous world. I will never hear the news of a murdered child quite the same again. I have been sensitized.

The music that Peter Jackson, the director, chose for this scene made it all the more poignant: Song To The Siren, as performed by This Mortal Coil (Cocteau Twins). A beautiful rendition which, in my humble opinion, has never been surpassed. You can listen to it in the post beneath this one.

learning curve

Although it may seem that I am neglecting my little blog, in actual fact I have been quite active. I am in the process of doing research, with the ultimate goal of a new and improved blog. I have discovered that, as often as not, life gets in the way, but I am heads and shoulders deep in researching blogs, videos, and digital photo storage and manipulation. For this reason, my online presence has diminished.

I am not satisfied with the limitations of my current Blog host, but perhaps I need to learn to code. I was hoping for a more simplified approach, so that I could concentrate on the message, not the media. But apparently I will either have to change hosts or take some tutorials for this one.

Among other things, I would like to be able to see the comments that readers have posted, and I would like to be able to receive emails without giving up any more privacy than I have already, but I haven't been able to figure out how to turn those things "on" (at least, not to my satisfaction).

I've also been having formatting issues, which are the result of "improvements" by the host, but which I can't seem to figure out. Very frustrating.

I think of myself as fairly proficient in computers and related technology, for an amateur anyway, so perhaps I just need to grit my teeth and dig my heels in and go for it.

If anybody has any suggestions, I am open to suggestions, ideas, tutoring, etc.

In the meantime, I will let you know how it goes as I go through this process. Perhaps this is my Next Assignment.

Peace.

tabula rasa

The phrase "tabula rasa" means "blank slate" in Latin. While I don't believe that a totally blank slate is possible in a human being - even a baby is born with inherent and inherited tendencies, talents and instinct - I do believe that it is possible to Begin Anew, whether literally, physically, and/or mentally/emotionally.

I was born, and still live, within the walls of the current empire. As a student of history, I realize both the advantages as well as the cost of this fact. Were I to be a citizen of another country, I might not have the blessing of being able to talk about "new beginnings". I might only be able to speak of survival, and struggle, or perhaps I wouldn't be able to speak at all.

But, here I am. Freely speaking for such a time as I am able: observing, living, sensing, feeling, remembering. Living.

Tablua Rasa. And so I Begin Again.

drumming, performing and concerts...

In my quest for good music and dancing through the years, I used to attend a lot of concerts. Always on the outlook for Peak and Shared Experiences, concerts were a source of endless entertainment for me.

But recently I noticed that something inside of me has changed. I no longer go to concerts. I'm not even tempted. What happened?

Well, I became a hand drummer, that's what happened.

From my very first drum circle, I was hooked. It was a process, but it didn't really take long: I now have three African-style drums, and I guess I can say in all honesty and almost without blushing: I am a drummer. I even practice. Sometimes.

But I realized the other day that there has been an interesting unintended consequence of my drumming: I now rarely, if ever, go to concerts. The flavor has gone out of it for me. Not in a bad way; I honestly don't miss them, and I still listen to enormous amounts of music of all genres. Finding and listening to good music is still one of my primary hobbies.

But what I have noticed is that hand drummers prefer to perform, rather than to stand around and listen. We'd rather play, even if no one else is around to hear us. We gather together, if only for each other, in large and small groups, and drum. Endlessly.

Drummers don't have to pay to go to concerts. We make the concerts happen. We create our own music. And we are not alone: our friends are hoopers and dancers and fire-spinners, and we all perform together, and for each other.

A lot of my friends are burners -we go to Burning Events, either local, regional or national (like Burning Man) - and the same energy is true at those events: we're all performers, artists, participants. There are no celebrities or rock stars. If there is a stage, we all take turns performing for each other. Audience and performers become one and the same. The line is blurred, and eventually erased.

And as far as drum circles are concerned: we never have to pay to get in. Drum circles are, for the most part, free. If you have to pay to play, something's wrong.

Once you cross that line, from being a member of an Audience to being one of the Performers, the Peak Experience is almost guaranteed. You might still go to a concert now and then (especially if it's your son's band :-), but you have been forever changed: now you ARE the band.

Try it sometime, you might like it. Who knows? Maybe this time next year, you will own three African drums...

E. Gilbert on genius and creative energy

I have been absent lately, from this blog, and maybe even myself... wondering about direction, spiritual, creative, physical and asking myself questions: what direction do I want this blog to take? where do I want to live? where do I want to put forth my effort...?

When faced with the Proverbial Crossroads, you are unfortunately susceptible to the cacophony of the opinions of others, some of which is well-meaning and some of which is a not-so-subtle attempt at control and manipulation.

I have always been a fan of "Do It Anyway", as in:  "Well, you're never going to make money at this, you know". My response: Do It Anyway.

"You'll never be published". Do It Anyway.

"Your amateur effort is commendable, but So&So is real artist". Do It Anyway.

"You're just a dreamer". (oh, how I love that one!) Do It Anyway!

Don't let unnecessary and irrelevant criticism and judgement keep you from following a dream or just trying something new. Play as hard and as much as you can, and don't worry about what other people think...

Creative energy, flow, divine inspiration: all the same source. Let it flow through you. And watch this marvelous presentation by Elizabeth Gilbert: enjoy.

my favorite season

It is fashionable to put down Christmas. "Commercial". "Materialistic". "Greed". "Waste".

But I respectfully disagree.

I believe that Christmas is what you make of it.

For me, it is the time of the year when I can say aloud and often my daily prayer: "peace on earth".  An entire holiday devoted to peace? I'm there.

It was the message of Peace that made Jesus' message so vital, so timeless.

And what can be more beautiful than giving gifts to the people you love? You don't have to buy it; you can make it, bake it, sing it, massage it, dance it, serve it... you get the idea.

Peace. Giving. Pretty lights. 

The cynics can frown and carry their negative energy around on their backs; meanwhile, I will dance my daily joy for love and peace and giving and singing.

Peace: it's not just for dreamers anymore.

gratitude

(I'm a nurse. This is an essay, written during my tenure as a staff nurse in a hospital; all the names have been changed).

Melinda had a grand mal seizure in the nursing station today.

I was giving report to Sheryl just around the corner from a full view of the station when Barbara came running out, screaming for help.

We quickly turned the corner, and there was Melinda, on the floor, on her back, in the middle of the largest grand mal seizure I have ever witnessed. Her back was arched, her hands clenched in fists, her mouth clamped shut, and she was jerking in spasms on the floor, her eyes vacant and distant, staring straight ahead.

My brain could not quite comprehend what my eyes were seeing: Melinda did not belong on the floor. She had been walking, talking, working down the hall from me all day. Her beautiful mocha-colored skin turned progressively darker as her diaphragm muscles clamped down hard and breathing ceased.

A code blue had already been called. Within seconds the station exploded with activity. A doctor who had quietly been making evening rounds ran in and took command. Oxygen. IV site. Stretcher. Electrodes. Monitor.

The code team arrived. Melinda was cyanotic, her lips a deep dark blue, still not breathing. “She’s got a pulse, she’ll be ok, where’s that oxygen, relax everybody, she’s got a pulse, I can see it in her throat, where’s that oxygen, get a line started, where’s that oxygen, we need oxygen”. Variously cajoling, barking and reassuring, the doctor kept up a running dialogue.

The code team was in full swing, and the station was full of people. It was evening shift change, so there were two shifts of nurses on the floor, and two charge nurses. The house supervisor showed up, as well as the code team doctor from the ER.

Those of us not on the code team stood by, keeping a respectful distance. Patients came out of their rooms and watched through the station’s windows. Other doctors, who had also been making rounds, stood by.

We were all stunned. In one swift instant, Melinda was transformed from being “one of us”, a healthy caretaker, to being “one of them”, a patient. She lay on the floor, helpless before our gaze. She was raised up onto a stretcher, dependent for her life on the care of her co-workers. She lay on the floor, naked, but not of clothes. She lay naked in her seizure, in front of God and everybody.

After what seemed like an eternity, Melinda suddenly began to breath. As she came out of the seizure and into the post-seizure stage, she began to scream. She writhed. She screamed louder and louder, unaware of herself, or her surroundings. She resisted the hands of her caretakers, she pushed the oxygen mask off her face.

She regained awareness slowly, intermittently distressed and calm, but still not aware of what had happened to her, what was going on around her.

She requested her glasses, and someone got them. She tried to get off the stretcher. She was told to stay on the stretcher, that she had just had a seizure and she yelled, screamed, cried. “I want to go home, I just want to go home”. 

She was not herself. She was acutely distressed. She continued to wrestle, to resist, to cry. In the hallway, staff members, patients, and visitors stood shock-still, or crying, or holding each other. Melinda was known to most of the patients, and many of the visitors and family members. Nobody wanted to see this happen to her.

Melinda is a very tiny, very thin, beautifully brown-skinned, young RN who “smokes like a fiend”. Her attitude toward work is also a little young; she is as not as careful as she should be, and it has gotten her into minor trouble from time to time.

But she’s likeable. I’ve never seen her stressed or lose her temper. So it was deeply disturbing to see her there on the floor, spasms violently shaking her tiny little body. It was disturbing because it was Melinda, it was disturbing because she’s “one of us”, and it was disturbing because she had so quickly morphed into a patient.

As nurses, we see the scary and painful side of human life, illness, and death every day. We can’t turn away, or pretend we don’t know. And though most of us feel compassion for our patients, an honest nurse will tell you that there is always an unconscious element of “thank God it’s not me, not my mother, my father, my brother, my child”.

We walk into the hospital to work everyday, but we walk back out at the end of our shift, into the sunlight, whether our shift ends at dawn or at dusk. Our patients stay behind, many of them trapped inside bodies that will not heal.

Today, I went home. Melinda went to the ICU.

I drove home sad, sad for me, sad for her. If she’s still admitted tomorrow, I’ll stop in and see her. But I’ll never forget her tiny, frail body on the floor, and the fact that, even in a hospital where I am surrounded by death and dying every day, I was once again reminded that we are all tiny, all frail, and that good health is a fleeting and pale gift.

When your feet hit the floor in the morning, count your blessings. Before you eat your daily bread, count your blessings. When your head hits the pillow at night, count your blessings. Life is temporary.

 

hurricane season

Imagine you live in the middle of an intersection. No house surrounds you, so you are vulnerable and subject to the whims of passing traffic. Sometimes traffic is heavy or annoying, but most of the time, it is light and unobtrusive.

Occasionally, it is deadly.

Fortunately, you can usually see the danger before it comes too close, and take action to avoid being smacked. Sometimes, however, even your best laid plans are all for naught.

Welcome to my world, where hurricanes are a regular, seasonal occurrence. Life on the Gulf Coast is like a traffic intersection, only the “traffic’ is weather; big, scary weather. You learn to be alert and prepared, or you risk losing your life.

I have lived somewhere on the Gulf Coast of the United States for much of my adult life. For the most part, you get used to the preparation, the planning, the stocking up, the anxiety, phone calls, monitoring the TV and the Internet for updates. It’s like having a second job.

Preparing for hurricane season is part of the price you pay for choosing to live here. And in spite of all the hardship, hurricanes are usually a rare occurrence. You have to plan for the worst, but the worst doesn’t often arrive. In any one location or state, direct-hit hurricanes are occasional, maybe every few years.

All that changed in 2004 and 2005. In a 14-month period, from August 12^th, 2004, to October 24^th, 2005, Florida was hit by no less than 7 hurricanes.

Say it out loud, and it almost becomes meaningless: 7. Seven hurricanes. Seven hurricanes in 14 months.

Hurricanes Charley, Frances, Jeanne and Ivan all hit in 2004, the only time in recorded history that 4 hurricanes hit Florida in the same hurricane season.

And then came 2005: it was the most active hurricane season in recorded history. The season began on June 8^th with Tropical Storm (TS) Arlene (which hit Florida), and ended with TS Zeta (which did not hit Florida). Zeta formed on December 30^th and dissipated on January 6^th,, 2006.

In Florida that year, we were directly hit by 3 hurricanes: Dennis, Katrina, and Wilma. The Keys were also affected by the brush-by of Hurricane Rita, so we actually were impacted by 5 hurricanes.

There were so many storms in 2005, all of the proper names for hurricanes were used. After Wilma, the remaining storms were named Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, Epsilon, and Zeta.

The impact that the 2004-05 season had on Floridians was severe and palpable. By the time the 3^rd hurricane was approaching us in 2004, we were astonished. One hurricane, ok. Two, maybe. But three? Unheard of. A fourth? No way.

We couldn’t believe it. And we felt that somehow our disbelief would make it better, make it go away. As a neighborhood, as a city, a county, a state, we were collectively stunned and numb.

The hurricanes came one after another, boom, boom, boom.  One hurricane would hit us, and the next day the meteorologists would be announcing another, also heading for us.

Some inland counties in Florida were hit by all 4 hurricanes in 2004. They still had the tell-tale sign of blue tarps up on their roofs when the 2005 season began with a bang (TS Arlene).

Depression was widespread. We collectively learned the definition of “post-traumatic stress disorder”. On TV, local reporters talked about how to deal with anger, helplessness, and depression. They advised getting help of the therapeutic kind, especially for children.

You could see it written on the faces of friends, family, and everyday people. We talked about it everywhere: on buses, standing in line at the bank, shopping, coffee shops and restaurants. We traded stories. Strangers became friends. We witnessed for each other. We talked it out. We were all in a perpetual state of shock.

Seven hurricanes are a lot of hurricanes. But that’s not counting Tropical Storms. Depending on their structure and make-up, tropical storms can have as big an impact on human life as a hurricane.

I was living in Tampa when Frances cut across the state. By the time she got to us, she was a tropical storm. No biggie, right? Except that I was out of power for 2 weeks after Frances. Two weeks. Talk about hot and steamy: no AC, no fans, no refrigeration or ice (except what you brought home). It was like living in a sweaty greenhouse.

Frances also dragged on for 12 hours. Stuck at a home with a small dog that was begging me to go out, I decided to walk him, quickly, between squalls. The street was lined with houses and apartment buildings, which helped to block the wind, but I had to lean into the wind to walk. The wind pushed me back, and I had to use muscle to stand and walk. I kept a close eye on trees and power lines overhead.

Down the street, strong gusts were whipping down an open alleyway. As soon as we walked into this little wind tunnel, the wind picked up my 10 lb. Pomeranian and carried him a few feet. The leash stopped his flight, but that was enough. He turned tail and ran home. Later, I learned that the wind was gusting at 50 miles an hour.

After the storm, there were millions of people without power throughout the state. We learned how power gets turned back on when that happens: hospitals and police stations come first, followed by nursing homes, then neighborhoods. The local coffee shop was near a hospital, so that neighborhood had power. We clustered there, soaking up the AC and iced coffee.

One day, a young woman brought her beautiful Golden Retriever to the shop. She was frantic. The dog couldn’t walk, couldn’t lift his head. None of us knew each other, but we all stepped in to help: I (as a nurse) diagnosed him, and other people brought water. The shop tenders brought ice and let her carry the dog inside, into the AC. Another person volunteered to drive her and the dog to the closest vet, others held her while she cried.

He was dying of heat exhaustion and dehydration.

Her apartment was too hot for the dog, she said. Even with all the windows open, the heat was unbearable and the poor dog didn’t stand a chance. We listened to her and nodded our heads. We were all in the same boat. In the aftermath of the storm, the sun was brutal and the air was thick with water. Houses and apartments were deadly hot; that’s why we were all at the coffee shop. 

As she left, several of us cried, knowing that the dog probably wasn’t going to make it. Ours tears were an expression of grief for her and frustration caused by the heat, the exhaustion, and the stress we were all feeling. You see, there was already another hurricane out there.

As I write this, Hurricane Gustav is pounding NOLA. What’s more, it is just a little more than a year since Katrina hit the same area. There is no doubt that Katrina was an extraordinarily tragic event, a tragedy compounded by an inept and uncaring political machine as well as bigotry. It will take years, activists, educators and historians to bring about the change we need in this country.

But the fact that Katrina’s impact upon NOLA was devastating does not mitigate the destruction visited upon Florida in the aftermath of 7 hurricanes in 14 months. How does one measure disaster? Adding up the toll in dollars or even in deaths does not describe the personal sacrifice, the personal loss, the personal experience.

One strong hurricane is catastrophic. Seven in 14 months is a holocaust.

I don’t know if the experience has made us wiser or more cautious. I don’t know if we now know when to stay or when to leave. I only know that I was one of the lucky ones.

I live in St. Petersburg now. A peninsula surrounded by water. So far, my home is intact, and my city is standing. I still have a job, and my son lives safely down the street. My life is more or less normal, at least for now. Only God knows what tomorrow may bring.

After all, I am living right smack in the middle of the intersection. And we all know that if you live and play in the street, you’re bound to get hit someday.

arrhythmias

My heart is dancing inside my chest, waltzing her desire to leave this life. Beating my individual rhythm, she has been always my dependable inner drummer, but now she seems to be questioning her role, or maybe she's just improvising, like a drummer learning a new song. Heartbeats, like breathing, are easy to take for granted, until they take their own path: you turn one way, they turn another.  Suddenly, they become the center of your thoughtful universe, occupying a weighted portion of your unconscious concern. No matter. So much is beyond our control. I will dance with my heart, and do what I can, but once again I am reminded that I am only a temporary visitor to this life. All I can do is watch my remaining sunrises and sunsets, give thanks, and accept What Will Be.

some prayers are answered

When I was three years old, I heard my name called by an Unearthly Voice.

When I was 21, I prayed for proof of God's existence, and moments later, was nearly struck by lightning.

On Sunday, July 6th, 2008, I was filming a thunderstorm on my porch. I had left my tripod in the car, and was holding the camera by hand, hoping to catch a little thunder and lightning in the distance. I thought of that day long ago, and wondered to myself if God would be so kind as to arrange a little lightning for me.

I received my answer immediately, and caught the lightning strike - barely 4' from me - on video. 45 seconds in, left hand side of the frame. 

Some prayers are answered.

lucky girl

Lizards keep crawling into my window air conditioners, and I hear them: getting chopped up by the blades of the fan.

Choppity-chop-chop. It's not a happy sound.

This sound often wakes me up early in the morning, and I say a prayer, especially when the sound goes on and on... and on.

Florida lizards are so common, it's easy to take them for granted. They sun themselves on the sidewalks, hunt by the light on porches at night, make love in the grass and on palm tress.

They lay tiny eggs in the moist, cool earth of my potted plants.

They scamper away as you approach them, but sometimes there are so many on a sidewalk or trail that it's difficult to not step on them.

But this is beyond the pale. I lay in my safe, soft, coupled bed, listening to the sound of the moment of death for one of God's creatures. I can only hope that death came quickly.

And on those thoughtful mornings, I am once again reminded of the fragility of our shared, universal life.

I start counting my blessings before my feet hit the floor, and think, what a lucky girl am I: born human, with eyes to see, and love in my heart. 

And I vow to try to share my love and my luck with every living being I meet, because tomorrow never knows.

Tomorrow I may crawl into an air conditioner.

return

It is a soft return,

Treading lightly on stone paths, and tripping over happiness.

See sly, shy Joy and her companion, Wry Understanding, stepping out from blossoming azalea bushes and crepe myrtle trees,

Striding down the indifferent path, marking intention with every step and smiling at gone.

recipe for kindness:

Patience

Rain

Love

Clouds

Birds

Butterflies

Laughter

Kittens

Green growing things and

Flowers

Music

Letting go

Growing up

Learning to look at your own behavior as opposed to judging others

Loving yourself

Forgiving yourself

Forgiving others

Loving others

Meditation

Reflection

Sunrise

Sunset

Oceans, lakes, ponds, rivers, creeks, puddles

Compassion

Acceptance

Gratitude

night rain

I couldn’t sleep last night – it was raining! Delicious drippy wet stuff, falling all around. Had to rush out of bed and onto my happy porch.

Frogs were chirping like crickets and even the birds woke up, shifting and tweetering in their night-time bushes.

The Drought-Breaker has arrived, and brings with Him the source of goodness and life, while He softly sings the rain song. (And if you listen closely, you can hear the flowers singing harmony).

In the morning, everything and everyone is smiling, remembering the secret of the rain the night before.

Breathing Deeply, Living Moment, Nightly Rain.