Happy Halloween

I am a Halloween Scrooge.
I do not dress up.
I do not give out candy.
I do not buy candy.
I do not buy apples and nuts.
I do not turn on my porch light.


I am a Halloween Scrooge.
I hate that:
1. Halloween costumes and candies hit the shelves right after Labor Day.
2.  My local Goodwill Store has turned into Halloween Central right at the point of the season that I am looking for wool blend sweaters.
3. People start putting hay in parking lots where there has never been any hay all year, to "stage" pumpkins where there have never been any pumpkins all year.

Presto, overnight…a pumpkin patch.
(Nobody’s buying that.)


I am a Halloween Scrooge.
I do not accept Halloween party invitation,
especially not to masquerade parties.

I went to one once. I was really excited about it because my costume was so original. I went as a chocolate Kiss, or that was the plan. The long strip of paper with the words Kisses, Kisses, Kisses on it was the part that was  to covered my face.

Had I known more about material back then I would have drapped brown fleece over the kissy frame and gone as an unwrapped chocolate Kiss. But no-o-o-o. I had to go as a wrapped Kiss. An aluminum foil-wrapped chocolate Kiss!

On the night of the event, I wore a brown leotard and tights as the base of the costume. I placed the Kiss-shaped frame in the back seat of my car, and drove to the party. My outfit was ingenious. I would just slip the frame over my head when I arrived, then pull the paper mask with the Kisses streamer over my head.

It was a pretty mild evening when I left my home, but by the time I arrived on the other side of town, the temperature had dropped, and the wind had picked up.

I had to park several blocks away from the host’s home. (Uh-oh. This is not looking so good.) I sat in the car, waiting for the wind to calm down. If it didn’t, how would I get to the front door with my costume in tact?

So I waited. And it began to rain.


Always have a Plan B. If not, improvise.

My original plan was falling apart. My Heavy Duty Reynolds Wrap Kiss frame would never maintain its shape and survive the mad dash to the house.

With a few minor adjustments, I reasoned, I could arrived victoriously as a Kiss that was partially melted by the rain. Or, as a Tootsie Roll, a bit confused, in a Kiss wrapper. I could see myself regaling the crowd with a story about how the Tootsie Roll wound up in the wrong sheath. (This could work!)

So, I took the aluminum foil sheets off the Kiss-shaped wires, wrapped them around my skinny brown frame, and darted toward the house.

How was I oblivious to the fact that the foil, once it became wet and cold, would likewise lower my body temperature? I was running like the Tin Woman towards the front door, soggy and shivering, when a strong wind whipped up behind me, and stripped me of half the foil.

Thank goodness I didn’t have to ring the doorbell. I entered the house inconspicuously and dove for the kitchen. I need to dump the remaining foil, and reposition myself. What would I be now?

Then I heard the opening chords to one of those get-the-party-started kind of songs: The Freaks Come Out At Night by Whodini. (If I don’t decide what to do, I am going to spend the night hiding in the kitchen instead of shaking my booty on the dance floor.)

The streamer, meant to serve as a mask, magically became a sash,  place diagonally across my chest, and I instaneously transformed into YaYa, winner of the Ms. Kiss contest. It worked. I danced the night away. I even remember receiving a lot of unsolicited “congratulations” kisses that evening.

Our Halloween Treat for You, Dear Readers

Mookie and FuBu are disappointed that we won’t be sitting outside watching the sky this evening. Sometime tonight, kids will set off firecrackers, and I do not want my black cats harmed. So we are staying close to the hearth.

We have made a list of our 15 Top Favorite Halloween Songs By Which To Dance.
We'll be dancing by the fireplace tonight. Join us. You can find all of these songs on You Tube (www.youtube.com). ENJOY.

15.    Monster Mash--Bobby Pickett
14.    The Theme from “The Addams
         Family
13.    Man Eater—Halls and Oats
12.    Ghostbusters--Ray Parker, Jr.
11.    Boogie Man--K. C. and the
         Sunshine Band


10.    Boogie Nights--Heat Wave
09.    Disco Inferno—The Trammps
08.    Moondance—Van Morrison
07.    Black Magic Woman—Santana
06.    The Phantom of the Opera--“The
         Phantom of the Opera"

05.    Freak of the Week--Funkadelics
04.    Doin' the Cosmic Slop
         --Funkadelics
03.    You Must Have Put A Spell on
         on My Mind--Blue Magic
02.    The Freaks Come Out at Night--
         Whodini

01.    Thriller—Michael Jackson

It Is Well with My Soul

“It is in the quiet crucible

of your personal private sufferings 

that your noblest dreams are born 

and God’s greatest gifts 

are given in compensation

for what you have been through.” 

Wintley Phipps

By The Light of The Moon

It’s a warm night, a full moon is having its way with the sky, and Mookie and FuBu won’t come in the house. They have flipped me off with their tails and warned me not to interfere with cat business. So, I am sitting on a picnic table outside, calling myself keeping them company until they’ve had enough of romping and chasing with abandon.

The swell of the ocean is beating against the beach. I can hear it through the trees, less than a mile away. The moon pulls, the ocean engorges; an ancient rhythmic dance   they’ve enjoyed since the beginning of time.

I’ve begun musing about things I’ve done by the light of La Luna.

I’ve sat in a cemetery, leaning up against a cold headstone, counting the stars. In my teens, this was a standard date option with almost every guy I went out with during the warm months.  (Take the fast girls to lovers’ lane; take the undertaker’s daughter to the cemetery.)

I once took a guided moonlit hike into the middle of the woods with a group of women to sing and invoke the Goddess. 

I’ve walked many a beach at night by the light of full moon, bundled up in the arms of a loved one. I have walked many more beaches in the solitude of my own scintillating company.

I’ve walked out of midnight mass into fresh snow with the blue cast of the moon reflecting off it.


(Wait a minute, let me go get a glass of wine and some cheese and crackers.)

There is a slight breeze breathing on the trees behind my home, now. The eucalyptus leaves are swaying; and, Mookie is rolling around on the pavement and then sliding forward on his side, before he flops onto his other side to repeat. He is impervious to FuBu as she swats as his tail each time he glides by her. They are not the least bit interesting in going inside, and now it’s almost midnight.

I’ve now position myself on the hood of my car, door open, a Carlos Santana CD in the player.

I learned to pee--standing up, by the light of a silver sliver on the edge of a lake, many moons ago. This was a skill a new boyfriend felt I needed in order to go on a week-end camping trip with him. Snuggling up tight to fit in one sleeping bag was on his mind. “Where will I go to the bathroom?” was on mine. (I was not born to rough it. My idea of roughing it is staying in a hotel with no in-room robe or room service!) Camper Guy and I did not stay together very long.

Of course, I’ve danced under the light of the moon with many fah-bu-lous, smooth dancers. This is my favorite of all the moonlight memories. I enjoy it as much as Mookie enjoys his autoerotic slithering on the pavement. I am air slithering right now. I’m trying to remember how to salsa as I listen to Santana’s Africa Bamba.

“Will I ever remember how to move my hips again?” I ask Mookie and FuBu. They are now looking up at me the way they had been looking at the moon just moments ago. Mezmerized. I am swaying to the music, trying to sync my feet, my hips, my shoulders, and my head.

I want to turn up the bass of the CD player, but all my neighbors’ lights are out. Mookie, FuBu and I are night creatures; they are early birds. I’m just getting into the swing of the music. I want to twirl. The cats take a look at me as I begin to spin in the moonlight and high tail it to the front door. Somewhere in the dark, their friends must be lurking. I think I have embarrassed them.

So I turn the music off, lock the car door, gather my empty wine glass, and pause to hear the breeze in the trees and the  lapping of the ocean one last time before I turn in. Before stepping back into my home, I ask Mother Moon, “Will I ever move fluidly to those ancient rhythms again? Will I romp and chase with abandon?"

A Piece of YaYa's Writing Story, Part II: The Pen is Mightier

Nora Ephron, acclaimed essayist, novelist, screenwriter, director, and the eldest of the prolific sisterly clan (which includes Delia, Amy, and Hallie)) often says of their mother:

“My mother wanted us to understand that the tragedies of your life one day have the potential to be comic stories the next.”

Thank you, Mama Ephron!

When Nora’s four year marriage to journalist Carl Bernstein (of Watergate fame) ended in 1980 (due to his flagrant affair with a British politician), Ephron was compelled to write the 1983 novel Heartburn, which was later made into a 1986 film starring Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep.

In the 2003 hit movie, Something’s Got to Give, when Diane Keaton’s character, Erica Barry, has her heart broken by Jack Nicholson’s character, Harry Sanborn, she does what any self-respecting playwright would do. She writes a scathing, Broadway comedy about it.

This is not about viciousness, vengefulness, or vindication, Dear Reader. This is about catching the curve ball and throwing it right back. This is about making lemonade out of lemons. This is about being the agent of your own life, the teller of your own tale.

There is a myriad of research that suggests acts of creativity, but especially writing, can help a person to process debilitative emotions such as anger, despair, fear, hopelessness, and loneliness. Writing through the pain, leads us to the lessons, the laughter, and on to a lighter life. Creativity heals.

Better to pick up a pen rather than a pill.
Better to write than to fight.

Better to share your experiences, strength, and hope.
Better to let go and flow.

A Piece of YaYa's Writing Story, Part I: How My Breasts Saved My Life

I have wanted to write ever since my parents and babysitters began reading to me and I understood the power of words and the magic of stories. Once my second grade teacher, Mrs. Cherry, confirmed I had talent, my course was set. At the time, the only black female writers I knew of were the poets Gwendolyn Brooks and Phyllis Wheatley (first published African American poet.)

I literally dreamed of writing. My father would bring home reams of paper from the trash bins of the stationers, who were customers of my grandfather’s rubbish business, just for me. (One person’s trash is another person’s treasure.) I read voraciously, just like my mother, and created books and magazines with my free paper. I even read the “how to become a writer” ads in the back of Richie Rich comic books, and I dreamed.

Every other Friday evening, I read Brenda Starr comic books as I sat in the chair at the beauty parlor, while Mrs. Grantham, the beautician, untangled the knots in my thick hair. She combed (it seemed like for hours) and I fantasized about myself as a black version of Brenda. Remember her?

"Brenda Starr, the tempestuous and flamboyant redhead was always impeccably dressed and coifed as she traveled the globe on one exciting assignment after another for her newspaper, The Flash.  Each adventure was filled with glamour, romance and intrigue as this remarkable heroine was perpetually torn between the demands of her career and the many loves of her personal life.

Brenda showed readers a new type of heroine as she fought, from the very first day on the job at The Flash, for her right to be treated as an equal.  Always on the cutting edge of fashion, Brenda has a sleek and sexy style that conveys the allure and independence of a workingwoman at the top of her career." www.effanbeedoll.com/2004BreandaStarr.htm

(Hey, what’s up with my emulation of redheads? See Hail to Pippi, my July 4 blog post.)


I excelled in English and creative writing in high school; I majored in English Literature and Journalism at Georgetown University. I worked for both Department of Defense’s and NASA’s public information offices while in Washington, D.C. Upon graduation in 1976, I was hired by my hometown daily newspaper. I was a feature writer there for a year when I was invited to apply for a public relations writer and editor position for a pharmaceutical company.

Truthfully, this is where I veered off the path I had navigated for myself. Enticed by the salary and my need to pay off college loans, I began a 10-year career of corporate writing and editing, moving further and further away from my dream to write literature.

I knew two years into my corporate career that being a creative type in companies like Warner-Lambert (now Pfizer) and Exxon (now ExxonMobile) was like being a conductor in a straight jacket. At this rate, I would never explore creative writing.

I loved my work as a public relations person, but the corporate mold was just too tight. I was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. I was losing the ability to hear my creative voice. The only voice I could detect was a teeny-weeny one that seemed to be whimpering at the bottom of a well: “P-l-e-e-e-z e don’t do this to me. I’m dying in here. Let me out.”  (Kinda like Tinkerbelle on Quaaludes.)

And then there was the rumblings of my internal bully, Bruiser the Abuser: "Are you crazy! You'll never make this kind of money again. Buck up, shut up, and keep twisting your self into knots. Make money and invest. So what if you get an ulcer? So what if you have migraine headaches? So what if you are depressed?  Save those touchy-feely writing dreams until you are a millionaire and you have the time to write."

Eight years and four surgeries to remove (benign) breast tumors later, I decided to leave the stultifying corporate corridors. But not before a crisis occurred that became a defining moment in my life.


Before the last cancer scare, in 1985, the surgeon recommended that we remove both breasts as a preventive measure. I was 32-years-old with no history of breast cancer in my lineage. The doctor callously told me that since I had not breast-fed any babies at my age, I was at an increased risk for breast cancer. "One day, you are likely to have a tumor that is cancerous. And, since you have no plans to become a mother (yes, that part was true,)... you do not need them (the breasts!) anyway." What?!? So why not lop them off? (Oh, yes he did.)

By this time, a chorus had joined Tinkerbelle at the bottom of the well, and they were singing out to my heart: “This is a time of reckoning. Weigh your choice carefully. Be true to yourself and 1) save your life or 2) bet the breasts in order to stay in the rat race.” When your spirit serves it up that starkly, you'd better have some clarity when you make your decision.

So, I chose to change my lifestyle--its pace, its focus. I got off the merry-go-round. I packed my bags, packed my car, and drove across country to the San Francisco Bay Area. Trained to follow formal routes, I enrolled in graduate school rather than jump right into writing. I earned a MA in Speech and Communication Studies in 1990 with the hopes that I would write non-fiction pieces on communication and relationships while I tried to retrieve my creative writing self. I expected that I would teach during the day to support myself while I worked in the evenings and on the week-end on my own writing projects.

So far, so good, right? I was forging my own path, taking risks, growing in faith.

I met Chaz in 1991 while I was training to become a mediator.  Chaz was one of the workshop leaders. We would later joke that he “trained” me. The irony does not elude me!

To be continued next week.

YaYa's Gone to Washington

My Dear  Readers:

I am in our nation's capitol this week-end! 






I am here to attend a wedding, 

visit my Alma Mater (Georgetown University), 



  















and to make sure the White House staff is prepared to welcome
President Obama and his family in January 2009.

Letter to Myself

                                                                                 

This is a letter I wrote to myself on New Year's Eve, 2007                      


Dear YaYa:

I am sitting here looking at an envelope that holds my divorce papers, signed by Chaz, waiting my perusal and signatures. I received them this past Friday, December 28, but I just don’t want to deal

with the next tsunami of sorrow I expect when I read them, so I am putting it off for a few more days. I’d rather start the new year signing them than end this year reviewing them. One seems to have more of a promise of “possibilities” than the other.

Possibilities. I know they are hard to imagine. I can see you squinting for them in the distance; all you can make out is the mirage of your marriage…in ashes.


I just want to tell you that wherever you are in this process, it is okay.

                               It’s a zig-fu**ing-zag process:

                  

                                                                                   

It’s a roller coaster ride…
It’s a nightmare…
It’s anxiety-provoking…
It’s depression inducing…
It’s an opportunity to let go…
It’s an opportunity to turn it over…
It’s an electric prod…
It’s tears and nausea…
It’s recriminations…
It’s a dull ache…It’s a pit in the stomach…a knot in the throat…

It’s an opportunity to let yourself off the hook…
It’s a chance to get off life’s merry-go-round…
It’s a chance to rediscover your real rhythm and pace…
It’s a chance to learn to trust on a whole new level…
It’s a time for self-forgiveness…
It’s a time to accept the truth: you don’t know a fu**ing thing and you can’t control a fu**ing thing and we all will die…
It’s an opportunity to heal at a deeper level…
It’s an opportunity to experience Spirit’s grace.

Please do not pressure yourself to move through this at any prescribed pace. It just doesn’t work that way. You know that from other healing work you have done…and now you are learning it again…on a whole new plane.

All year, you slid between the heat of your anger and frozenness, waking up startled from nightmares of amputated limbs. But, somewhere, in an unnamed place, I am sensing a thawing. You will be all right.     

   My biggest hope is that you will reconnect with your creative self and allow her unfettered expression. Right now she is hidden, bound and gagged. But she will rise again.                                                           
Alas, you must give yourself all the time you need to heal. You will know, in a real organic kind of way, what you need and how to take care of yourself. In the meantime, rest on the prayers and well wishes of those who love you.

Happy New Year.
Love, YaYa






                                                                                                                                                      

No Such Things

Whenever I asked my mother the question, she answered patiently and deliberately: “There are… no such things … as ghosts.”

I was helping her hang laundry one Saturday morning in early Autumn and decided to use those few precious moments alone with her to inquire about the fears that had been plaguing me for some time.

“Well, how about the ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Future?," I asked. Every Christmas season, we watched the movie about Scrooge and the ghosts and the turkey and Tiny Tim. Instead of dreams about Santa, carols, and the-ever-hoped-for white Christmas and white pony, I would have nightmares about the black shrouded apparition garbed in clanking chains, and carrying a scythe. I was even more worried about the approaching holiday season now that we had moved into the tiny apartment over my father’s funeral home. 

“Nope, no such thing. You do know that’s a story…from Dickens’ imagination? Not a true occurrence. It’s fiction.”

I dug further into my bag of ghost memories as I took the wooden clothes pins from my mother’s long fingers and placed them into the striped laundry basket.

“So I guess Casper the Friendly Ghost is fiction?”

“Yes, dahlin’. How about handing me the wet sheets from the other basket,” she asked as her delicate body teetered over the edge of the makeshift roof deck to attach the flapping sheet over the asphalt below.


We had only lived at 13 Evergreen Avenue for six months. (Isn’t that the perfect street number for a funeral home…13?) The adjustment had been difficult from the very first moment. I was heartsick for our former home: my old bedroom, our wonderful backyard with apple trees and rhubarb plants and plenty of places to hide.

It was hardest at night. The prayer that my siblings and I repeated innocently enough every evening, now commenced my nightly horror show. “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Is that supposed to be consoling? Is that supposed to reassure a kid?

No matter how tired I may have been earlier in the evening, once I whispered the “if I should die” part of that prayer, my mind would get stuck in the death groove. What happens if I die tonight? Or if not tonight, tomorrow? What will it be like when I die? Will I know I am dead? How will it feel to be dead? Will I be able to come back and visit my family, my friends? No, I guess not because that would make me a ghost…and there are…no such things… as ghosts.

Each night, my mother floated into our room in diaphanous night gown and socks, to cover us up and kiss us good night. If only she could stay. She could keep that dead man downstairs away from my bedroom door; for I could hear that corpse in the room right below me readjusting himself in the casket; or worse yet, preparing to sneak up the stairs to eat a little girl just for kicks.

The chill of my fears rushed through my veins and kept me vigilant at night. By day, I was on guard against the stories my new classmates would tell to scare me, and each other. They often succeeded. My parents expected my siblings and me to know better than to be frightened. “Oh that’s nonsense,” they’d say when I told them what gory stories the playground crew conjured.

 “You know better than to believe that,” they cajoled. No, you know better than to believe that. Me? I am only 11. I’m holding my breath and I don’t know when I’m ever going to exhale.


 I’m trying to cover all the bases as I stand with my mother this morning hanging the very sheets I tussle with as I try to sleep. I want to wrap her certainty around me like a blanket. When I return to school on Monday, my new friends will bombard me with ghost stories and tell me how afraid they would be to live in a funeral home. I tell them that I don’t live in the funeral home, I live over the funeral home, but that is a useless distinction. “Aren’t you afraid to live with those dead bodies?” “Do you see ghosts at night?” “Has a ghost ever tapped you on the shoulder?” “Does your mother fry up dead people’s livers and give them to you for dinner?

When the weekend is over and my alone time with my mother is just a comforting memory, I want to be prepared for the questions. I want to be able to answer them with the same conviction that my mother answers me: “There are… no such things… as ghosts.”

In the meantime, I ask my mother my final gnawing question. The one that should put my ghosts fears to rest. “What about the Holy Ghost? The father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.’ What about him?”

 “Girl,” she scolds, “you’d better take those sheets in the house and start folding.”

Wanderings and Ponderings

A friend sent this quote to me today:

If we listened to our intellect, we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go into business, because we'd be too cynical. Well, that's nonsense. You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down. –Annie Dillard

(I will walk on this tomorrow.)

Here Is Your First Blog Quiz of the Fall 2008 Semester

I returned to work yesterday. It was the first time I stepped foot on campus in two months. That is just enough time to decompress from the previous school year, restore my energy, motivate myself, and then prepare for the new semester. Yesterday’s return was not a moment too soon; yet, I was relaxed and ready to reconnect with my colleagues. Next week, the students return.

It was about 100 degrees in San Jose, and the staff's spirits were high. We had a day of schmoozing and catching up in a number of different forums. In our afternoon division meeting, we heard about people’s vacations, weddings, births of grandchildren, adoptions of puppies, attendance at conferences and presentations of academics papers.

The Dean zig-zagged his way from the front of the room to the back, making sure people received kudos for the things they deemed important (better known as morale boosting).When he got to the back of the room where I sat, I took a chance, raised my hand, and hesitantly announced that I had started a blog over the summer called My Seat on the Beach: Learning to Let Go and Flow.

I heard murmurs of interest and received a rather rousing round of applause. I was pleased. Delighted, really. I think my blog title is a catchy one, and hope that it will net a devoted readership soon.

So you can imagine how excited I was at the end of the day, when a gaggle of teachers surrounded me. Fans already?! Why didn’t I start this blog sooner in my career?

Colleague #1: When I heard that title, YaYa, I thought: That’s a one-woman Broadway show in the making.

Moi: Oh, I’m flattered. That's a great idea. I've never thought of that.

Colleague #2: That’s a show I would see any day. What did you say the name of it was? Sex on the Beach?

Is that what she heard? Is that what everyone thought they heard? YaYa started a blog this summer and its called: Sex on the Beach: Learning to Let Go and Flow!!!

And, look: The title works. Plus, the new one is so much...well...sexier than my original. Talk about buidling a reading audience. This is worth consideration.

So, folk, what shall I do? (Here is your first blog quiz of the fall semester.)

Should YaYa:

A. Race to enroll in a Speech and Articulation class
B. Give her colleagues coupons to a hearing specialist
C. Rename her blog
D. Change the content of her blog
E. None of the above. I believe YaYa should ________________________________________________
(Click on Comments at the end of this piece and write you answers there.)

And, oh yeah..sex on the beach? Don't recommend it. SAND!!!


                                                                                          

This Week on the Beach: Life's Gifts

While I mourn the ending of my marriage, I marvel at the buoyancy of friendships. And, oh, how I have appreciated the insightfulness, vision, and humor of my good friends and family. I  am especially grateful to those, who through their memories and storytelling, have helped me to remember who I once was and what once brought me joy!

These people have been on the other end of the rope, dragging me back to shore over the past two years. They have not let me drown. Every memory, every insight, every laugh we have shared has been a twine in the lifeline thrown to me.

My friend Dee and I have been talking at least twice a week since Chaz left our marriage. Much of the time, we have to leave messages.  Somehow, spontaneously, we each have created a theme song for the other. So, now, when we have to leave a message, we sing the song, in the rousing tone of  kindergarteners who thrill at the tune and the rhyme of a new song.

Hearing that message cracks me up. As does my sister’s message, when she starts laughing and telling me how much my voice message sounds exactly like my mother’s. My sister is the only person who can make me laugh until I cry. What a purging those moments provide.

Soon, I will be visiting a city where I will see at least six friends from various parts of my life. All  have listened to me moan and groan over and over and over again, and still are willing to spend time with me! Friendship is very forgiving. I am so psyched!

In anticipation, I have been singing friendship songs--of a certain era. In no particular order, here are my top ten, plus two:

1. With a Little Help from My Friends—The Beatles
2. You’ve Got a Friend—written by Carole King (sung by both King and James Taylor)
3. Old Friends—Simon and Garfunkel
4. Reach Out, I’ll Be There—The Four Tops
5. Lean on Me—Bill Withers
6. Stand by Me—Ben E. King
7. That’s What Friends are For—Dionne Warwick, Gladys Knight, Stevie Wonder, and Elton John
8. Ya Gotta Have Friends—Bette Midler in her divine Miss M days
9. A Bridge Over Troubled Water—Simon and Garfunkel
10. In My Life—the Beatles

Plus Two:
11. Make New Friends but Keep the Old—a Girl Scout song, sung in a round.
12. The More We Get Together (the Happier We’ll Be) (A kindergarten song--to be sung loudly and enthusiastically.)

 (Am I the only one who thinks the best songs came from my youth? Do you have any songs you want to add the list?)

What I Heard

It was a warm morning two years ago, the sun was shining, the treetops were dancing, and I had just finished teaching three back-to-back classes during a six week summer session. Trilling the hallelujahs of Handel’s Messiah loudly in the car, I was driving over the Santa Cruz mountain to turn in my students' grades. It had been an arduous year and I was anticipating the sprawling days of August to recuperate before the regular semester began.

I was completing a round of deep inhalations/slow exhalations when two scriptures slid into the rhythm of my breathing. “Weeping may endure for the night but joy cometh in the morning.” And then, “In this world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.” The first from the old testament; the second, a new testament rendition of the former. I had not picked up a Bible in over a year, but I was steeped in its teachings. Why these verses? Why this day?

I was raised an Episcopalian (my mother’s practice) and in my late 20’s I became a Baptist (my father’s practice). Since my escape to California over twenty years ago, I had developed a Buddhist leaning. When, inquiring minds push me to declare my faith, I have taken to telling them, “I’m a Baptabuddhapalien.” Elements of each speak to me. But I must admit, when my spirit can’t find a peaceful resting place, it often alights on a Biblical passage, buried deep in my heart, to lead the way.

On this sunny August morn, two months after my husband Chaz had undergone back surgery to relieve the pain of bulging discs and damaged nerves, I was finally exhaling. The emergence of the scripture felt like a celestial pat on the back. I was certain that I was receiving assurance that Chaz and I had survived a major stress to our marriage, and now we would be entering a stage of rejuvenation. Joy was finally going to come to our morning.

The past four years had been challenging, difficult even, but the past five months had been close to impossible. My dear husband had been born with congenital nerve apathy in his eyes and declared legally blind by age three. In spite of his severe visual impairment, he had traversed this planet fiercely independent for 48 years. Chaz was proud of the fact that he had surmounted the challenges of living and working in major cities such as New York, Chicago, and San Francisco. However, with the onslaught of a mobility disability, his world was shrinking, and every fiber of his freedom-loving soul fought the imposed constraint. Chaz had been exiled from the active life he had known, and this new phase of his life…our life …was not a part of his plans. "Unacceptable!," he would mumble.

Psychologist Abraham Maslow once said: “If all you have is a hammer, then everything appears as a nail.” Likewise, YaYa Bowmann says: “If all you feel like is a prisoner in your own life, then anyone who lives with you appears to be an overlord."  I had unwittingly become the enemy.

Chaz had lost more than his physical equilibrium from the back injury. Unable to work or get around without great effort and discomfort, he had become disgruntled and cranky, then angry and withdrawn. He spoke of feeling anxious and depressed. The computer became his constant companion and solace while I became the target of his frustration. One day, short on patience myself, I told Chaz, “I think there must be a UFO hovering in the eucalyptus grove behind our home, the crew of which has kidnapped my real husband, and replaced him with this curmudgeon impostor.”

I prayed daily that the upcoming surgery would not only relieve the pressure from his sciatic nerve, but would also dissipate the strain in our relationship.

Chaz’s surgery was performed on June 5; he was home by the 9th. I had one week to get him settled in before I would be out of the house, 45 miles away at work, from 10:30 a.m. to 9:30 p.m.

We clashed over his recovery. I promoted a slow, cautious healing process; while he pushed himself everyday to return to his former able-bodied state. He ignored every precaution his doctor advised. “Wait two weeks before you start climbing stairs," the doctor admonished. Chaz waited two days. “Keep the walker with you, even when you don’t think you will need it. You never know when you will tire.” Chaz disposed of the walker like Forrest Gump threw off his crutches, just a week after returning home from the hospital.

I realized, not soon enough, that I needed to employ a rusted old skill—detachment. I had to let go and try to flow. This was Chaz’s recuperation, not mine. I could not control his process. In the meantime, Chaz was a man on a mission. He was inching around our home daily repeating: “I am moving forward. I am moving forward.” His declaration of independence. I thought I understood it.

The day after I submitted the summer grades, Chaz and I were having breakfast at our favorite café. I was chirping and warbling about the mid-week dates we would be able to resume now that he was feeling better and able to move more freely. Once again, we would be able to enjoy the things we used to do together before my partner became my patient: weekend bike rides, concerts, plays, vacations, sex. Ah, sex. When was the last time? When was the last time?

As I chattered, Chaz concentrated on swirling pieces of home-fried potatoes through the yellow lake on his plate. As he bent over, one of his long dread locks skimmed the yoke. When I reached  to wipe the yellow stain from his hair, he looked up abruptly, caught my hand in mid-air and spoke: “To tell you the truth, I am leaving. I have rented a room. I will start packing today. I should be completely moved by Friday.”

Lightning did not strike, thunder did not roll, the earth did not quake. It was eerily quiet, but everything had changed in an instant. This is not an alien impostor. This is my husband Chaz. I had been listening to his daily mantra: “I am ready to move forward. I am ready to move forward.” I just did not understand: He meant without me.

The moment those unstoppable words spilled out of his mouth, I felt like a hummingbird, shot down and stuck in the maple syrup on my plate. I was struggling to breath, trying to focus my eyes, listening for his voice to pull me out of this drowning.

Nothing.

And then my heart heard it again: “Weeping may endure for the night, but joy cometh in the morning.”

Sit In

Seymour Seagull is occupying my seat on the beach while I visit my sister and her family in Los Angeles this week-end.


He gives a new twist to the familiar vacation sign, "gone fishing," doesn't he?

Missing in Action

The mystery of the season in Santa Cruz? Where is the Pink Umbrella Man? You know the guy. Can't miss him, garbed in pink from head to toe. Pink spandex tights, pink floral dress, pink coat, and pink accessories: boa, pocketbook, beads, wool cap, and umbrella. Oh, and let me not forget the pink eye make-up, pink lips and large pink orbs for cheeks, all lightly glazed with sparkles and glitter.

Apparently, he has not been seen downtown, inching his way up Pacific Avenue at his normal tortoise pace, for several months. His disappearance prompted an article in the Santa Cruz Sentinel and an avalanche of online speculation.

Moreover, Santa Cruzans have begun to share their true feelings about Pink Umbrella Man. Sentiments are  remarkably diverse.

Some think he is entertaining and harmless, while others perceive him to be creepy and threatening. Some say their children look forward to visiting downtown, getting an ice cream cone, and hunting for the slow moving clown. Others say they can't bring their kids near Pacific because they tremble at the thought of seeing the pink guy.

Some say he is a retired techie millionaire from San Jose, while others speculate he is a child molester. Some think he is an eyesore, while others believe he is a walking zen koan. A few residents think he is mocking the mentally ill, while others think he is mentally ill.
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Quite a few wish he would remain missing in action while others defend his right to occupy space in our unique downtown. His admirers say he is the very type of street performer for whom the popular slogan, Keep Santa Cruz Weird, was designed to support; while his detractors argue he is not an artist/performer, he is just weird!

I am amused by the preoccupation with Pink Umbrella Man. Whatever the real deal is, he has become a litmus test for our tolerance of difference in Santa Cruz. But in my estimation, he's a minor story.

Here is what my inquiring mind wants to know. Where are all the black men in Santa Cruz? Now that's the real missing in action story.

Slow Your Roll

I am on a self-anointed sabbatical this summer. I taught two intense, four-week summer school classes during the month of June, and I have been off the month of July. I'm 26 days into the month and I am just beginning to get a handle on this business of rest and relaxation. Basically, I have been working at relaxing.

And you know there is something out of balance when you've got to work at it, as opposed to, let's say, flow into it.             

My cats, Mookie and FuBu, look at me in amazement. "What!? You don't know how to stop, relax, chill? Fall prostrate, go limp, zone out? What kind of cat are you?"

"Nope," I confess. "There's always a voice in my head that constantly rattles off a list of chores and catastrophes that she is just barely keeping at abeyance until I get my rear in gear.  Her name: Vicious Voice. She's as thin as a straight black pencil line, wears oversize red-framed glasses, and holds a To-Do list that scrolls from here into eternity. She wears a black and white horizontal striped outfit, kind of like the gear the chain gangs wore in old movies. She's a young Pat Benatar...on steroids,  and she screeches at me through a megaphone. She makes me nervous. I guess I'm just a 'scaredy cat.'"

The Mooks and Foobs are asleep before I finish my story. At the first whisper of stress, they pass out. A protective measure, I'm sure. This ability explains why lions rule. They do not stress. They know how to slow their roll. They expend energy only when it's necessary; and, when it is, they act with laser-like focus, speed, efficiency, and accuracy.  And once they have taken care of business, they eat, play, and nap! Domestic cats, like Mookie-Cola and FuBu-Booboos, sleep about 16 hours a day, over twice as long as their stressed out human-companions.

The next morning, I found this note taped to the cats' food bowl:
YaYa: You need to get your life back from that crazy Vicious Voice! Here's what you've got to do:

                             Tell her: "You are not the boss of me!"

                                                          Then...

                                        Stre-e-e-tch out that tension.

                                         Next...

 

    Put your hands in the air and wave 'em like you just don't care. 

        Then...

                                           Hang Loose, Baby!

                                           And, finally, remember:

  

Relaxation means 
releasing all concern and tension 
and letting the natural order of life flow through one's being.--Donald Curtis 

Thank goodness, I still have the month of August to practice!
Write and tell me what you do to relax.


                                                      

Words to the Wise

I am a lover of words.
A pithy phrase can nail me to the page.
Alliterations delight me.
Metaphors enlighten me.
Oxymorons slay me.
Imagery ignites my imagination.

And a good thought provoking quote sends me running for my personal Food for Thought notebook.

As a writer, communication instructor, and public speaker, words to me are like paints and paint brushes to Synthia St. James; lips, fingers, and trumpet to Miles; wood and chisel to sculptor Elizabeth Catlett. They are the tools of my trade.

Quotes have grabbed me ever since I read this sign in my Uncle John’s bathhouse at the age of five: “We don’t swim in your toilet, so please don’t pee in our pool.” Now that’s a keeper. Ever since, I have maintained a notebook of quotes. A good one can come in handy.

This summer, I have been updating my Food for Thought quote book to include some favorite oldies.

Here are a few:

Meadisms (my Dad)

* You can please some of the people some of the time;
    none of the people none of the time.
    But you can’t please all of the people all of the time.

* You can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip.

* You can’t take it with you. (He’s and undertaker. Believe him.)


Marionisms (my Mom)

* Beauty is as beauty does.

* You can lead a horse to the water but you can’t make him drink.

* Where there’s a will, there’s a way.


YaYaisms (Me)

* You can’t afford the luxury of a cotton-candy brain.

* Hand it over to Goddess. She recycles.

* There’s no excuse for self-abuse.

* Don’t hand me no half-a$$ed paper and I won’t give you a half-a$$ed grade. (Advice my students have yet to heed.)


How about you? What are your favorite quotes? What are your favorite sayings from family members? Send them to me and I will include them in my blog.

In the meantime, if any one can figure out how to reword the bathouse quote into something I can use in the classroom, let me know.

What Would Whoopi Do?

    I straighten up from stuffing my foot into an uncooperative sneaker. I tumble my way through the security check point at the Mineta San Jose International Airport. I am wrestling with my shoes, struggling to reclaim the correct ubiquitous black rolling bag, and waiting for my laptop and other belongings to flow through the mouth of the conveyor tunnel, when, it happens. “Hey, Whoopi, Whoopi! They checked your bags, too?”

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    This occurs often when I travel; its frequency increases when I step foot into an airport. People mistake me for Whoopi Goldberg. I, for one, don’t see it. Whoopi has no eyebrows, folks. Look at me closely, I do.

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Any Airport, USA

. 

    So, I am in the airport—Any Airport USA. I will be stopped, two or three times, before I reach my gate. “Yo, Whoopi.” “Excuse me, you look just like that actress, what’s her name? Whoopi Goldberg. You know, she’s my favorite actress. She was so wonderful in “The Color Purple.’ Did you see that movie? Are you her? May I have your autograph?” Sure you can. But I’m not Whoopi Goldberg.

 .

Let Us Pause for a Moment of Multicultural Diplomacy

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    A year ago, on my way to visit my sister and her family in Los Angeles, a small Vietnamese woman walked up me in the airport with a big smile on her face. “You Whoopi?” I smile. She waves vigorously to her family.

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    Seven more people crowded around me. I am beginning to feel like an exotic animal in a zoo. I can feel someone behind me tugging on one of my locks. My internal siren goes off. “Warning, warning. Step away from the hair.” I am feeling the faint beginnings of a panic attack. Oh my God, I have walked into a petting zoo, and I have become the main attraction.

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    I’m sure any woman who has been pregnant can relate. Don’t you just hate when people approach you and rub your belly—like you are a good luck charm? Don’t you just want to spray them with mace? Wouldn’t you appreciate it if they would ask permission to touch and pat on you? I feel the same way. Don’t touch my locks.

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    What would Whoopi do? What would Whoopi do?

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    The teen-age son of the Vietnamese family, sporting tattoos and piercings, begins to circle me. He is carefully inspecting my hair as his elders continue to point at me and whisper, “Whoopi. Whoopi.”

 .

Young pierced guy is shaking his head in approval and in appreciation of my locks. I can see the lightbulb over his head. “Maybe, I’ll get me some of those. Yeah, Dude, that will really freak out my parents.”

. 

    “Where’d you get your locks,” he asks. “Where’d you buy your locks?” Buy?! He thinks my hair is fake! He thinks my locks are a weave.

. 

    I do not have time to explain to him that my locks are symbolic of my self-avowed emancipation from European standards of beauty. I do not have enough time to tell him that my locks are an integral part of my spiritual life. I would like to tell him that when I meditate, I envision some of my locks entering the ground and spreading out like the roots of a tree, while the other locks stretch up and out into the sky like branches.

. 

    I want to tell him my locks are my antennae to my Higher Power. Please don’t touch them because I do not want the energy of others to interfere with my divine connection. I almost regret that there is not enough time to engage.

 .

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There's Always One in the Crowd 

. 

    As I am trying to figure out which line to get in next, a standard issue white bald businessman behind me peers at my hair and says: “You look just like Whoopi Goldberg. I loved her on Hollywood Squares. Gee, I wish I had enough hair to wear mine like that!”

. 

    My ears begin to burn. I hear the siren. “Beep. Beep. WWWD? WWWD? What would Whoopi do? What would Whoopi do?”

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    I bite my tongue. A retort is pressing against my pursed lips. “Sure,” I want to say. “I bet back-in-the-day, you wanted to sing “Mr. Bojangles” and dance like Sammy Davis Jr., too. Huh?”

Instead, I say: “I love Whoopi, too. She’s my idol. I want to be just like her when I grow up.” As I am walking away, I hear him ask: “Can we take a picture together? ” I act like I do not hear him.

Almost on the Plane

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    The waiting area of a commuter flight is small with few seats. When I arrive, there is little girl wearing shoes with winking neon lights. She is entertaining herself by twirling around and falling. Every time she takes a step, the running lights circle the soles of her psychedelic shoes, flash orange and blue. I think they made a tinkling sound, too. 

. 

She was twirling and running around in circles, falling down, and gleefully screaming: “Whoopi! Whoopi!” Clearly, she is having big fun, and I am delighted to watch her.

. 

    I am smiling, at no one in particular, and thinking: This little kid is going to be dropping acid and taking Quaaludes in 10 years. She is enjoying that dizzy feeling way too much. I’m thinking shall I warn her mother, when the mommy actually approaches me. Her face is turning shades of pink. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

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    I’m confused. I’m so confused. Why is she apologizing to me?

. 

    “I’m sorry. My daughter thinks you’re Whoopi Goldberg. Her favorite video is a Sesame Street show with Whoopi and and the Muppets."

. 

     WWWD? What would Whoopi do? What would Whoopi do? Unlike me, I can’t imagine Whoopi walking anywhere with an impenetrable shield around her. Whoopi exudes openness. I smile, a genuine grin. I laugh. I am amused. “Well, that’s a relief,” I say. “At least she didn’t mistake me for Big Bird.”

.”

    Even as I am settling in my seat on the plane, I am contemplating the WWWD question. What would Whoopi do if people invaded her privacy in an airport and said: “You look just like that writer in Santa Cruz. What’s her name? You know, the one with the hair like yours: YaYa Bowmann,”

Whoopi would say: “I am. D’ya want to take my picture.”

Hail to Pippi

On this Independence Day, I salute Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Ephraimsdaughter Longstocking, my childhood hero. Pippi Longstocking, the adventurous, assertive, free-spirited creation of Swedish author Astrid Lindgren in the mid-1940s, was the source of many of my 1950’s girlhood dreams. Pippi was living my fantasy life while I sat home coloring between the lines.

The first movie adaptation of the Pippi Longstocking story was filmed in 1949. I saw my first Pippi movie in the mid-1950s, before I entered grammar school. Pippi wore long red braids that poked straight out, parallel to the ground; I had long black braids that snaked down my neck to my bony shoulders. She had red freckles all over her face; I was chocolate brown from head to toe. Pippi lived by herself, unfettered by parental constraints. Her closest companions were her monkey, Mr. Nelson, and her horse, Alfonso. I lived with a mother and father who maintain close supervision over their children. I had a black cat named Lightning.

Pippi could say anything, do anything, and defend herself against anybody. I had to spend my energy avoiding getting dirty; being careful never to say an unkind word about or to anybody; and making sure my face didn’t get stuck in that ugly, contorted expression my father teased me about when I cried.

Pippi cleaned the floor of her house by skating around on scrub brushes; she baked huge batches of cookies all by herself; and she could make messes without getting yelled at. She was strong enough to pick up her horse and carry him around, and she could beat up pirates. She was a little, crafty, carrot-top truant who could outsmart grown-ups and amaze little kids.

Adults could not suppress her; the educational system could not tame her; and terrorists could not scare her. Hail to Pippi, my earliest feminist beacon.