Spring Fever Has Struck Again

Spring has sprung and our Spring Break started rather late in the season. By the end of last week, students and faculty alike were eager for rest and relaxation. Many of my students agreed with Robin Williams: "Spring is nature's way of saying, 'Let's party!'" They are off to Mexico to do just that.

Me? I've returned to the East Coast Love Nest to spend my vacation with Buddy. Ten days of rest and rejuvenation. I arrived just in time to catch the blooming of the cherry blossoms right outside of our living room window. I am reminded of this sentiment expressed by Bern Williams: "The day the Lord created hope was probably the same day he created Spring."

A Sunset Shapes My Mindset

 Sunset at Twin Lakes Beach, Santa Cruz, CA

One of the most satisfying experiences I know is fully to appreciate an individual in the same way I appreciate a sunset. When I look at a sunset...I don't find myself saying, 'Soften the orange a little more on the right hand corner, and put a bit more purple along the base, and use a little more pink in the cloud color...' I don't try to control a sunset. I watch it with awe as it unfolds.

-Carl R. Rogers
Experiences in Communication

Santa Snooze

This is one of my neighborhood beaches, along East Cliff Drive, Santa Cruz.

"One learns first of all in beach living the art of shedding; how little one can get along with, not how much."

- Anne Morrow Lindbergh


When Buddy, an edgy East Coaster, started spending winters in Santa Cruz with me, daily he would comment on the slow drivers and the smiley people. "Everybody moves in slow motion," he complained, "like they're in a trance."  He started calling my town "Santa Coma."

When I return back east to spend most of the summer with him, I quickly become stressed  by the speed racers on the New Jersey Turnpike, the Garden State Parkway, and other highways. I long to hear the ocean from our bedroom window in Parsippany, like we do in our West Coast Love Nest. (Yep, that's what we call it.)

As far as adjusting to a different pace of life goes, we both experience culture shock when we are together on opposite coasts. This we do for love!

But on days like today, when the sky is cloudless and perfectly blue,
the ocean mirrors the heaven,
I leave my Santa Cruz home
with just my keys,
a notepad, pen,
and a sweat shirt.

I'm drawn to the ocean,
a 10 minutes trance walk,
and I drop into the warm, sandy bosom
and nap.

On days like this, I am grateful for the beach life and its valuable lessons about shedding.

This afternoon, I let go of speed, stress, and worry;
traded them in for awe, deceleration, and trust.

 Now, I am ready to rename my town Santa Snooze, and I mean that in the best possible way.

Hey, FuBu. She Likes It.

They may as well have called the sun a ball of flaming joy.--Terri Guillemets


I don't know who likes the warmth of the sun more: me or FuBu. On mornings when I write, I watch FuBu follow the sun patches in our living room and dining room. Wherever the sun splashes onto the carpet, you will find a zonked out black cat. She follows the light from mid-morning to early afternoon and I never hear her chastise herself.

She doesn't call herself lazy or unmotivated. She doesn't "should" on herself: "I know I should be downstairs, pouncing on the down comforter and chasing the escaping feathers." No. She is purrfectly content basking in the sun. I once read "Sunshine is the best Prozac." FuBu is a witness!

When I bought a long sought-after reading chair last Fall, I situated it right in line with the early morning rays. This is where I sit to do my neck stretches, write in my journal, drink coffee, and watch FuBu. Here, I listen to the birds, clear the cobwebs from my brain, scan my body, and assess my energy so I can plan my day accordingly.

As daylight savings time rolled around, I became grumpy and lethargic. All I wanted to do was eat and sleep. FuBu sought comfort by the heating vents and I was sliding under the comforter earlier and earlier in the evening.

"I was born to hibernate," I would tell Buddy, who had started calling me Cubby Bear and bringing trays of food to the bed.

By mid-November, Buddy started dropping hints about one particular present he had purchased for Christmas. "You're going to like it," he sang. "Its going to make you happy." (Emphasis on the happy.)

"Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

"I'm not telling."

By Christmas morning, Buddy couldn't wait to place a big box in my lap. As I unwrapped it, I saw the word "Happy" and Buddy began jumping around singing: "A Happy Light makes a happy life."

He had bought a full-spectrum HappyLight panel by Verilux. Full-spectrum lights simulate healthy, natural light and signal your body's hormones to improve mood and fight fatigue. Bright light therapy is used to treat Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and is useful in treating fibromyalgia. It can help to reduce muscle pains, insomnia, fatigue, and mood disorders and depression.

(I am in no way a medical professional. If you want more information about this product, go to www.verilux.com)

I can tell you this: My HappyLight has been a lifesaver for me this month. We have had approximately 21 days of rain in March. That's Seattle proportion! Many-a-morning, it was the promise of 10,000 lux that enticed me out of bed in time to stretch and write in my reading chair. Now I have a window to the right of me and the HappyLight to the left of me. And where is FuBu? Spread out her full length on the arm of the chair, right in front of the light. Sunbathing. I don't know who enjoys the HappyLight more: me or FuBu.

Ah, Sweet Slumber, Where Art Thou?

The last time I remember having a peaceful sleep...I was a baby. (No, this isn't my baby picture. Isn't she adorable? Doesn't she look like she is enjoying her repose?)

This is my sleep most nights... a crossed-eyed-frantic-hyperventilating-purple-people-eater!

I am tired, but not sleepy. I am achy. I flip and flop for an hour before I remember I stand a better chance of stilling myself if I lie on my back.

I am on my back.
I'm wide awake...but I'm tired.

I'm thinking about blog pieces I would like to write.
I reach for a magic marker and piece of paper, both of which are in the bed just for this purpose; catching an idea in the dark. (Remember Buddy is in New Jersey because if he were here with me in Santa Cruz, there wouldn't be any pens, crayons, notebooks, magazines, books, index cards, crystals, tarot cards, massages pillows and pokers in the bed.)

I'm looking up into the darkness, wishing I had some neon stars and planets on the ceiling. I'm wondering if anyone has done a CD called Lullabies for Insomniacs. Now, there's a good idea.

Midterms. Tomorrow four of my classes are taking midterms. I hope they do well. So far it has been a great semester. Thank you, God/dess.

I'm revising in my head a story I plan to give to my writing coach this week. If she accepts it, I will participate in an evening of good writing, good food, and great camaraderie where Laura's students read their work.

All the muscles in my neck, shoulders, and back are screaming. I am trying to practice deep breathing.Inhale deeply, exhale slowly.

Fifteen pounds of FuBu just landed on my chest! When did she get so heavy?

I pet her, she purrs and finds an opening to burrow under the covers. She nuzzles in the curve of my body and puts a paw on my arm as if to say: "There, go to sleep, now."

I'm tired...I'm dozing...I'm failing asleep. Ahhh....

I think I am dreaming; yet, I'm aware that I'm aware that I am dreaming. In fact, I think I am talking to my dream. I'm aware that I am dreaming the same scene over and over again. I'm aware that I am tired, yet not asleep, but dreaming, but not quite awake but I feel every ache...ALL NIGHT, from 10:30 pm--5:30 am.

And finally, I drop into sleep...no more straddling the line between two worlds, and I sleep to 9:30 am.

I'm thankful for the four hours, even if I am fatigued.


This, my friends, is the nocturnal plight of many fibromites. I have read a range of 40-96% of fibromyalgia sufferers experience sleep disturbances. There are typically three types of insomnia: trouble falling asleep, trouble sleeping, and trouble staying asleep; some people, like myself, experience all three. Too little sleep causes impaired memory and thought processes (fibro fog), depression, decreased immune response, and increased pain perception.

Everyday that we get up, no matter how slowly and fuzzy-brained, and TCB (take care of business), is a day we feel like fibro warriors.

By the way, here is one of my favorite lullabies,sung by little angels. (Found it on YouTube.)

Tsunami Hits Santa Cruz: YaYa Seeks Higher Ground

Many Santa Cruzans didn't know about the magnitude 8.9 earthquake that hit Japan early Friday morning and its subsequent tsunami until the local news came on at 6:00 am. Some were startled to hear that a  tsunami warning was in effect for our beach town. The waves were expected to hit between 7:30 and 8:00 am.

I suspect that I was not the only unaware Santa Cruz resident who was tossing and turning at 12:30 am that night, unable to find the part of the mattress that would receive and soothe her aching body. My mind was racing, my body was unsettled, and FuBu, too, was wide awake and jumping on and off the bed. We had no idea what was brewing.

Around 1:30 am when I was about to give up on sleep and watch some late-night re-runs, hopefully of Bones, Monk, or Who's the Boss, my phone rang. It was a fellow insomniac in San Jose calling to tell me to turn on the television. There we saw the explosions, fires and destruction caused by the quake; people ducking and dodging and screaming. I started having heart palpitations as I remembered the 1989 7.1 magnitude Loma Prieta earthquake that ripped apart towns in the Bay Area and Central Coast, including Santa Cruz.

My panic came a calling as we watched the ocean water flow like lava through Japan, knocking over buildings like they were Legos and ripping up cars and carrying them along as if they were loose pebbles.

We could only find news coverage on CNN and the Weather Channel. All we knew was the tsunami had created such rocking and rolling in the deep blue that California was expected to feel its affects within five hours. The size of the expected waves only the local newscasters would report four to five hours later!

What was I going to do in the meantime? Of course, by now I was imagining Katrina victims waving white sheets from the top floors of their homes, people in long lines trying to evacuate the city, overcrowded armories with children crying for their families. In my mind's eye, I saw myself getting trampled in the mass

exodus from Santa Cruz.

You may call me dramatic. I called it ESP (extrasensory perception.) I live a mile from the ocean. I didn't have enough understanding to predict the height or the reach that the tsunami waves would have in my community. My gut told me to make a plan, now!

I called Buddy, who is currently in New Jersey, and together we decided I should head for a local hotel that is at a higher elevation. "Don't wait...gather your medicine...books...magazines...papers to grade....laptop...and, oh yeah, clothes...and go now. Better be safe than sorry," my dear heart warned.

At 6:00 am, I was checking into the Chaminade as my town was awakening and hearing about the impending waves. You could have set your watch to the arrival of the first surge. The sea receded by about100 yards and rushed back in several times throughout the morning. The town warned residents near the coast to evacuate, too late, if you ask me.

The harbor close to my home received the worst damage. The boats there tossed and turned like rubber duckies in a child's bath. Eighteen boats sank and at least another 100 boats sustained damage, including cracked hulls, broken masts and rudders. Docks broke apart and big cement clumps floated about marring vessels.

By the time I'd checked into my room and watched the first local news reports, I had been awake for more than 24 hours. And while I was fluffing my pillows praying that I might finally fall asleep, daredevil surfers had paddled out to sea to catch some waves. That's so-o-o-o Santa Cruz.

My Seat on the Bed

There are days, like today, when I write My Seat on the Beach from my seat on the bed. It is what I call a fibromyalgia smack-down day. I don't know what brought it on. I slept well; nonetheless, I woke up with burning pain throughout my neck, shoulders, back, hips, gluts, and legs. An army must have marched over me during the night...several times. (Or it could have been FuBu.)

I know I need to be still today. When fibro speaks, YaYa has learned to listen...with reverence. The price of inattention is too steep: days of pain, days of insomnia, days of poor coordination, confused thinking, and memory lapses. Even if I rest today, there is no guarantee I will be better able to function tomorrow. But I can guarantee if I ignore my body and push through, I will feel worse...both physically and emotionally tomorrow.

How do I keep myself still and let my body and soul rest? Let me tell you about the view from my seat on the bed. It keeps me thankful despite my discomfort:

I live on the edge of a eucalyptus grove in a condo with a reverse floor plan; that means, my bedroom is downstairs (second floor level) and my living room is upstairs (third floor level). My bed faces the balcony window which faces the trees. Its like living in a tree house, only warmer.

Its very breezy today and the eucalyptus trees are swaying with the sensuousness of my friend Salle as she hulas. The sun shines through the grove highlighting different branches and spaces between the trees as it arches across the sky.


Earlier this morning, I watched squirrels chase each other up, down, and around the thick trunks of the tree in front of me. Someone once told me when you see squirrels chasing each other up and down, the chaser is probably marking his territory for the chasee. However, if they are going around and around, it means the female is leaving her scent to help the male determine if she is fertile. No, I have never been privy to what happens at the end of the chase! But sometimes, one will land on the balcony and eat some of the seeds that have fallen out of the bird feeder.

Let me tell you about the birds because I am aware of them before I even open my eyes. I know Spring has arrived when the grove begins to sound like a jungle again. The call and response of my feathered friends creates a symphony that wakes me up and delights me. Then the squirrels begin their chatter, and before I know it, FuBu is running back and forth on the bed, making her "ack, ack, ack, ack" noise at the commotion outside.

There is a tree right outside the window to the left of my bed. As that tree regrows it leaves, it will soon be dancing from the sparrows singing in its hair. But for today, just one sparrow sits in the crook of two branches and sings for FuBu and me.

 It is the wonder of nature that allows my spirit to rest when my brain is egging me on to get up and take care of business. Its the birds and the trees, the sun and the squirrels that remind me of this scripture: "Be still and know that I am God." (Psalms 46:10.) Before I know it, I am humming the song, "His Eye is on the Sparrow."

And because I am sitting in my seat on the bed, with my laptop, I visit You Tube and find the rendition of the song, sung in the movie: Sister Act 2, by Tanya Blount and Lauryn Hill. (Enjoy and be blessed!)




Amen...and Amen.

National Women's History Month: Maya Angelou Is Coming to Santa Cruz

Here is my fantasy: Someone has invited me to dine with Maya Angelou before she speaks here on Friday evening, March 18. Little 'Ole Me is going to share a meal with a national treasure and one of the great voices of contemporary literature. She is a poet, educator, historian, best-selling author, actress, playwright, civil-rights activist, producer and director. After having a delightful meal where she has regaled her guests with stories of her travels, I ask if I can tell a story about how one of her early poems saved my sanity. She smiles and nods yes, and then offer me a piece of her cheesecake.


"It was in the the late '70s, I was fresh out of Georgetown University and working as a public relations specialist for a major pharmaceutical corporation in New Jersey, not far from my home town.

"As Goddess would have it, I was the youngest member of the department, the only female, and the only African-American. I worked with five seasoned PR executives, and my supervisor, a young man named Paul, who had been with the company for about five years, and recently had been promoted from the position I was hired to fill.

"One of my major responsibilities included editing a weekly company magazine. On this particular summer day, I had written an article about American students who had just returned from traveling abroad as exchange students.

"The story caught my eye because I, too, had been an exchange student seven years earlier and I was eager to hear about the experiences of the two recent sojourners. One was an African-American young woman who had spent the year in Japan; the other a white male student who had lived in Mexico. Both had lived with families who had younger children. I can only imagine part of the reason the parents chose to be host families to American scholars was because they thought it would be an educational experience for their children, as well as for the exchange students.

"As it turned out, on this day, I was the one to get an education.

"I had received a packet of photographs from the exchange program and had no trouble picking the perfect one to accompany my piece. The photos of the young lady showed her dressed in Japanese attire (as was the rest of her host family) sitting on the floor around a low table, sharing a meal. The photos of the young man depicted him dressed in blue jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers standing in front of a little Mexican boy, who was on his knees polishing the American student's...sneakers. Polishing his sneakers, do you hear me? On his knees, as the student towered over him.

"I was flabbergasted that the exchange program would release a picture of a student in such an imperialistic pose. Without question, I chose the photo of the other student to represent the purpose and the spirit of exchange programs.

"I expected the PR men with whom I worked to see, as clearly as I did, that the picture of the male student was bad PR. I was not prepared for my supervisor to question my judgment. He did more than that. He told me that the picture I had chosen, the picture of an African-American young woman, could not represent an American exchange student living abroad. 'Readers might be confused about who is the American,' he said.

" 'How is that possible? Everybody else at the table is Japanese!' I tried logic. 'Who else could be the American?'

" 'Look at her. Look at her short hair,' he said, pounding her face in the photo with his scrawny finger. "She could be African. How can anyone tell she is American? Use the picture of the other student,' he ordered.

"Dizzy. I tell you no lie. I felt dizzy...and nauseous. I had just received a heavy blow to my stomach, a slap to the face. My eyes began to sting, as I ran out of the conference room to the ladies room. The tears began to flow just as I slipped into the stall.

"Had this jerk just told me that a black student could not represent America? Had he really just implied that a black woman's hair wasn't representative of the good 'ole US of A? Was he really saying that a picture of a blond-haired blue-eyed boy was more representative, even if he was having a Mexican child polish his shoes?

"Was he telling me that I could not represent my country on any other soil? Was he saying my experience in Denmark was not legit? Was this really coming from a man of my generation, born and raised in the north, just like me?

"Had I spend six years of my education integrating an all white private girls' school to confront this kind of bigotry in my first corporate job? Had I spent four years of college at Georgetown, fighting for recognition in a school that had only begun to accept women just a few years earlier, to listen to this man dismiss my experiences, and this young black teenager's experiences, as not being symbolic of America?

"I dried my tears, recovered my composure, reapplied my lipstick, and returned to the conference room ready to reason.

"I casually explained that when I lived in Denmark, I had a boyfriend, Uffe, who was tall, thin, blond, and blue-eyed, and looked very much like the exchange student in question.

" 'This guy could be Danish, for all I know. How would anyone who has traveled to Scandinavia know whether he was Danish, Norwegian, Swedish, or...American? Besides, what sense does it make to have your sneakers shined? Do we really want him depicting American intelligence? This picture could quite possibly work if the young man had been wearing shoes...leather shoes that might have needed polishing. But this? This is a disgrace.

" 'Believe me. I was an exchange student. If we publish this picture in our magazine, it will be an embarrassment to all involved. Better that our readers have to pause to figure out that blacks, in this New Day, can represent America, than to use that condescending photo."

"I used the same argument as Paul and I sat across from the Director of Public Relations later that afternoon. Clearly Paul and I did not see eye to eye, but I prevailed.

"I have never, in 35 years, come that close to losing it in my workplace. Of course, I was young, naive, and on that day overwhelmed by the ignorance of the man to whom I reported. It would not be the last time I would confront racism so blatantly in the workplace. But it was the first time. And the first time always hurts the most.

"That evening, I went to a local bookstore and discovered your recently released book of poems, in a yellow jacket cover, entitled: Still I Rise. It saved my sanity that summer as I mourned the loss of my innocence. Until that summer, I believed that my education and background had prepared me to compete in any arena. Now I knew others may not perceive me as I did.

"I framed this poem over 30 years ago and it has adorned every office I have had the fortune to occupy."

Dear Readers, if you are not familiar with this "anthem," read on, read on. Right on. Right on.

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Thank you, Mother Maya, you saved my mind.

Dear Readers: What are your favorite Maya Angelou quotes or poems? Click on the comment section and let us know.

A Second Chance at Love

You might call us old school because our selection of romantic songs predates the 2000's, but who can deny the soulfulness of this song, Don't Know Much, But I Know I Love You, made popular by Linda Rondstadt and Aaron Neville in the late '80s. (Click on the You Tube video below.) It works for these boomers--the second time around.

Look at this face,
I know the years are showing,
Look at this life,
I still don't know where it's going.

Chorus:
I don't know much,
But I know I love you,
And that may be all I need to know.

Look at these eyes,
They never see what matters,
Look at these dreams,
So beaten and so battered.

Chorus:
I don't know much,
But I know I love you,
And that may be all I need to know.

So many questions still left unanswered,
So much I've never broken through,
And when I feel you near me,
Sometimes I see so clearly,
The only truth I've ever known,
Is me and you.

Look at this man,
So blessed with inspiration,
Look at this soul,
Still searching for salvation.

Chorus x3:
I don't know much,
But I know I love you,
And that may be all I need to know.

I'm Baaack!

After a self-imposed hiatus that extended a bit too long, I am delighted to say: "I'm Back." Boy have I missed writing to you. It has been an entire year since we've been together at My Seat on the Beach, and we've got a lot of reconnecting to do. I have missed the dialogues between my readers (Mimi, Buddy, Brad, Jevon, Maggie and Lou, especially) and I hope to meet even more blog buddies.

Let me fill you in on a few of my writing projects:

1) Aside from this blog, I am writing a memoir about coming-of-age while living over my Dad's Funeral Home. Any of my readers who have memories of that time of our lives, please, please click the Post a Comment line at the end of this blog post and give a holla. All my other readers who may be curious about the experience, please send me your questions via the Comment section.

2) You have been introduced to Buddy, Mookie, and FuBu--my family, and of course, I'll be writing about them. Many of you enjoyed reading Buddy's previous remarks in the Comment section so I hope you will tune in. He says he may write again. I just remembered, I never posted our wedding pictures. Next week. Stay tuned. (If I can figure out how to upload them.)

3) I have been teaching Communication Studies at Bay Area colleges for over 20 years now, so I am going to try my hand at writing communication articles for publication. I'll post some here for your feedback first.

4) I have been learning more (through trial and error) about how to live, work, and play with fibromyalgia. I definitely want to create a discussion with blog readers about living with chronic pain so I can write about those challenges.

As you can see, I have ambitious writing plans for this year. I hope you will join me regularly at My Seat on the Beach. (Just click on the Follower and/or Subscribe section on the right side of the blog.)

Happy Valentine's Day, everybody!

A Poem for My East Coast Clan

(I recently read this poem in one of our local weekly newspapers and immediately thought of my east coast family and friends.)

Santa Cruz Has Everything --But You

Here are mountains--wondrous mountains--
with a thousand tones of green;
Here are canyons--deep, dark gorges--
Lending myst'ry to the scene:
Here are crooked trains a-winding
Up and over through the view--
Santa Cruz has everything--
Everything, but you!

Here's the ocean--placid ocean--
With its emerald-tinted bay:

Here are breakers--mighty breakers--
Sending heavenward their spray;
Here is boating, here is fishing,
Here are abalones, too--
San Cruz has everything--
Everything, but you!

Here are flowers--gorgeous flowers--
Blooms that cheer us all year long;

Here are fruits from every climate,
In a land of smiles and song;
Here are big trees--giant redwoods--
Older than Assyria's Jew;
Santa Cruz has everything--
Everything but you!

Here the cold winds--icy winter--
Finds no place to lay its head;
Here the hot winds--sultry summer--
Leaves a cooling breeze instead:
Then comes longing--silent longing--
When the sky's a golden hue;
Seems like here there's everything--
Everything, but you!
--Frank R. Bretlinger

Ba-ba-ba-buddy and the Cats

For the past three months, Mookie and FuBu have been trying to acclimate themselves to Buddy's presence in their space.

It hasn't been an easy transition.
Not for cats.
Not for Man!



My cats are born and bred Californians where animals are called "pet companions," the humans they live with are called "pet guardians," and we all live together as one big, happy family. Buddy is from "Get-those-d_mn-cats-off-the-f_cking-table" Land where humans reign supreme and animals stay on the floor.

Buddy has never lived with felines.
He does not understand that they must climb high, like on top of the bookcases, to survey the condo, which, as far as they are concern, is their domain.

He does not understand that any bare flat surface, be it the bed, his desk, or the dining room table is an invitation to Mookie and FuBu to sprawl out and take a nap.
The cats don't understand the declaration: "I'm the man of the house!"

So...Buddy has created a "No Gatos" sign that now hangs on the bedroom door.
He closes the office door tightly to keep Mookie and FuBu out.
He checks under the bed every night to be sure neither one of the furry critters
has snuck in the room under his watch.

Even though the man of the house has redefined my pet companions' territory,
they are all learning how to get along.

He feeds them every morning and they have ceded the table.

Late October (poem by Maya Angelou)

Carefully
the leaves of autumn
sprinkle down the tinny
sound of little dyings
and skies sated
of ruddy sunsets
of roseate dawns
roil ceaselessly in
cobweb greys and turn
to black
for comfort.

Only lovers
see the fall
a signal end to endings
a gruffish gesture alerting
those who will not be alarmed
that we begin to stop
in order to begin
again.

Everybody's Business

Today marks the beginning of Domestic Violence Awareness month. In the face of a 30 percent increase of reported domestic violence incidences across the country, our California governor, Arnold Schwarzenegger, has seen fit to veto all state funding for Domestic Violence programs.

This action involves a line item veto of the Department of Public Health's Domestic Violence Program, which provided $20.4 million for 94 domestic violence centers and shelters. Services provided by these agencies also include legal advocacy, transitional housing, assistance with restraining orders, counseling, hotlines, and other vital support services.

How can we ignore what amounts to domestic terrorism? In a recent Huffington Post article, Eve Ensler, author of "The Vagina Monologues," reports that already in the past seven months of this year five men in California have killed their families and themselves. And, one hotline in Contra Costa County, CA, received triple the normal number of calls in the first seven months of this year.

In these difficult economic times, we are seeing a rise in domestic violence and a reduction in support of programs that provide advocacy for the victims. We cannot turn a blind eye to this. Let's learn more about Teen Age Dating Abuse, Intimate Partner Abuse, Elder Abuse, Sibling Abuse, the Domestic Violence Cycle, and the signs of a potentially abusive mate during this month.

Contrary to the popular belief that "what goes on behind closed doors, should stay behind closed doors," domestic violence in this country is everybody's business.

Clothed in Glory

School has started, the monarch butterflies have returned, Fall has arrived in all her glory, the Farmers' Markets are bursting with the fruit of the local harvest, and Buddy completed his east-coast to west-coast drive yesterday. He drove through 11 states, none the worse for the wear.

This is a great time of year for Buddy's relocation. Autumn is his favorite season. Here in Santa Cruz, early fall is our summer. We have our best weather in September and October.

'Tis the season of change, a time of transition; 'tis the season of abundance, and a time of dying and letting go.

'Tis the season for YaYa and Buddy to start their lives together.

*************************************************************************************************

Afterword: Last week, I asked readers to submit their favorite travel songs. My friend Sherry submitted a list, among them: "Get Here If You Can" by Oleta Adams. How could I have forgotten that one? Here are the lyrics. (My sentiments exactly.)

Get Here If You Can

You can reach me by railway, you can reach me by trailway
You can reach me on an airplane, you can reach me with your mind
You can reach me by caravan, cross the desert like an Arab man
I don't care how you get here, just- get here if you can.

You can reach me by sailboat, climb a tree and swing rope to rope
Take a sled and slide down the slope, into these arms of mine
You can jump on a speedy colt, cross the border in a blaze of hope
I don't care how you get here, just- get here if you can.

There are hills and mountains between us
Always something to get over
If I had my way, then surely you would be closer
I need you closer.

(interlude, then repeat bridge)

You can windsurf into my life, take me up on a carpet ride
You can make it in a big balloon, but you better make it soon
You can reach me by caravan, cross the desert like an Arab man
I don't care how you get here, just- get here if you can.

I don't care, I don't care, I need you right here right now.

I need you right here, right now, right by my side (yeah,yeah, yeah, yeah).

I don't care how you get here, just- get here if you can.

Thanks, Sherry.

Road Trip, Road Songs

In less than 36 hours, Buddy will start his cross country trip to California... home, to me, to our new future. We are getting married in November; in the interim, we will be setting up our home in Santa Cruz.

As with most things we do, songs come to mind. Road trip songs. Here are the ones that we've thought of so far:

1.  "Do You Know the Way to San Jose"
2.  "Are You Going to San Francisco"
3.  "Homeward Bound"
4.  "Cruisin"
5.  "Keep On Truckin'"
6.  "On the Road Again"
7.  "The Long and Winding Road"
8.  "California Dreamin'"
9. "Walk On"
10. "Wichita Line Man"
11.  "Rollin' Down the River"
12. "Take Me Home, Country Road"
13. "Born to Be Wild"
14. "Come On and Take a Free Ride"
15. "Riding with the King"
16. "Hit the Road Jack"

These titles date us, I realize. We are looking for more current travel songs. If you think of any, please send them to us in the comment section of this blog piece, or email me.

We Came, We Saw, We Celebrated-Part 2

My parents recently celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary with family and friends. I did not do justice photographing the scope of the event (the camera's battery died and I did not have the battery charger with me) but this one picture captures the essence of Meadie-Peadie and MarionBelle: my mother, ever the lady, and my father, the consummate jokester.

Mommy, my brother John Paul, and friend, Harold.

My sister Tonia (right) and her BBF, Yvonne.

John Paul's son, John Paul, Jr.

Cousin Kenny (left) shares the coveted grilling duties with Buddy (below).

My brother Dutch (Meade Vernon, Jr.), sportin' a hat, just like Meadie-Peadie, and cousin Ronnie and his wife, LaVerne.

Cousin Connie, her mom. Sara, and her husband Bill. Connie brought with her a recently researched family tree of my paternal grandfather's side of the family, and gave us all an opportunity to make corrections.

Tonia's son (and my Godson) Montae, Jr.

Buddy and my cousin Marion enjoy themselves while sharing
meat-slicing duties in the kitchen.

 We have so few sibling photographs.
This is a great one of John Paul and me.

Here is a picture with me, my parents, and John Paul's dog, Paige!

It is a rare occasion when Tonia, who lives in Los Angeles, CA, and I, who lives in Santa Cruz, CA are able to visit my parents at the same time. (Notice MarionBelle, agog in the background.)

We Came, We Saw, We Celebrated

Neither rain, nor mud, nor heat, nor humidity, deterred 90 people from celebrating my parents' 60th wedding anniversary party this past Saturday.

I don't have pictures, yet, but when I do, I will post a few. In the meantime, here is one of the tribute letters to my great parents:



Happy Anniversary Meadie-Peadie and MarionBelle:

There is a popular saying that the only consistent thing in life is change, but whoever said it didn't know Meade Vernon and Marion Cecelia Rowe. For me and many more people within your realm of influence, you have been the most consistent element in our lives.

It is because of your 60-year commitment and devotion to each other, your children, and your community that so many of us can gather here today to say thank you for your caring, compassion, faith, humor, and wisdom.

Who among us could forget the Meadisms that prepared us for life. Sage words like:

1) "Money don't grow on trees."
2) "You can please some of the people some of the time; none of the people none of the time. But you will never please all of the people all of the time."
3) "This too shall pass."
4) "You can't squeeze blood out of a turnip."
5) "When your 18, you're on your own."

Or how about Daddy's wise sayings that helped us learn to set boundaries:

1) "My name is Bennett and I ain't in it." Or
2) "My name's Bess and this ain't my mess!"

And didn't we all believe Mommy when she said:

1) "I've got eyes behind my back." Or
2) "What you do in the Dark will come out in the Light!"

Haven't we all been inspired by Mommy's faith:

1) "Where there is a will, there is a way."
2) "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning."
3) "But for the grace of God, there go I."
4) "We walk by faith, not by sight."
5) "God can do any thing but fail."
6) "Hold on to God's unchanging hand."

You have led not only by word, but foremost by example. In your offspring, you have planted the seeds and continually watered the seeds, and today, I hope you can see the fruit of your love and labor.

Happy Anniversary, Mommy and Daddy. Peace, Love, and Joy, YaYa

Time to Play

We don't stop playing
because we grow old;
we grow old
because we stop playing.
--George Bernard Shaw







I'm on vacation with Buddy. I'll be back on Monday, August 24, 2009.

Learning to Let Go

G.K. Chesterton once wrote: "Angels fly because they take themselves lightly." If that's true, I recently decided, I'd better start letting go of some stuff or I'm never going to earn my wings.

So, in good faith, I packed 30 grocery bags of books and magazines this summer and donated them to the library. It was not easy. In fact it was excrutiating. I am from the "you-can-tell-a-lot-about-a-person-from-her-bookshelves" school of thought, and had amassed a library to represent me.

I lamented over every title: from a book of Christopher Robin's prayers to a copy of E.B. White's Charlotte's Web; from Jane Austin's Pride and Prejudice to Alice Walker's The Color Purple; from John Gray's Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus to Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which I've never read, by the way. But I planned to.

Just like I planned to put six shoe boxes of photos into albums, organize my cassettes in alphabetical order, paint my toenails--10 different colors; make homemade granola and yogurt, sew a quilt from old pairs of blue jeans, feng shui every room in my home, earn an advanced degree in at least two more subjects, and earn a million dollars before I retire.

All well-intentioned plans; all out-dated. This is what I discovered as I cleared my book shelves. I am surrounded by stuff that screams "Do me, do me, do me;" none of which I am motivated to accomplish because they represent former versions of myself. Its akin to holding onto size eight clothes when you know damn well the closest to an eight you will ever get again is your shoe size.

So now the boxes of photos have been winnowed down to two; the cassettes have been dumped; not so difficult to do when I realized I no longer own a cassette player and doubt that they are manfuctured any longer. If I paint my nails once a year I am lucky, and trying to reach my toenails is a strain, anyway, so I trashed the nail polish. Why bother making homemade yogurt when I don't like the taste of it? Afterall, its not like its chocolate pudding! The homemade yogurt maker went to the Goodwill along with the seven pairs of jeans. A blue jean quilt? What was I thinking?

I don't need to feng shui my house, I just need to simplify my surroundings.

I have enough academic degrees. I don't need to know more, I'd rather feel more.

A million dollars? Don't foresee me earning it, but I am open, open, open to receiving it from unexpected income streams. Of course, I would be willing to share. That's the only way I could travel lightly.