Right now,  Sri Lanka is in political and humanitarian crisis but I have an elephant story to tell….with no particular message beyond the fact that Baby, as an elder, in spirit, told me to..

 Before there were any elephant orphanages, the uncle of a friend of mine began the very first one. 

He had saved a baby elephant that had been caught in a crossfire that had killed its mother. The baby had been hit by a bullet at the very same time and was blinded in one eye.  In caring for the baby, Uncle and Baby fell in love with each other, and so Uncle adopted Baby and raised him as if he had been a human child. Years passed and they grew old together, they spoke the same language and loved each other beyond knowing. 

One day Uncle’s assistant left and Uncle brought in a younger man who happened to enjoy over indulging in drink. While Baby was bathing, the young man sat down with a bottle and then another and another, and finally when it was time to go home, he was in no shape to walk and so Baby scooped him up with his trunk and carried him all the way.  The next day Uncle decided that this plan was not going to work and that he needed to care for  Baby himself, even though he was frail.  As they walked home after the bath, Uncle holding on to Baby’s ear, a minibus drove by very very close to the two of them. This was a narrow rural road, and the driver, in fun, blasted his horn, which startled  Baby. In his startle, Baby flailed his trunk and swatted at the minivan with a mighty thrust and at the same time, the trunk swiped Uncle and knocked him flat.  Uncle died. 

Baby, heart broken,  decided that he needed to die as well and went into suicide mode. If an elephant lies down on its side, it means that it is ready to die as this will collapse its lungs. This is what Baby did, while howling in grief.  To save Baby’s life, he had to be tranquilized and stood up. ..parallel bars, similar to gymnastic bars, were built to hold him up, and he was strapped to these, day and night,  as he was determined to kill himself. 

Uncle’s funeral came and went and Baby displayed passionate pandemonium while continuing a hunger strike. He was determined that his life on earth be over. 

Two days later Uncle’s mother, who was very very very old,  sat down with Baby for a chat. No one knows what it was that she said to him, but this chat ended Baby’s death wish. He lived on and was the respected elder of the orphanage that all of the elephants sought the company of and guidance from.

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I drove through Manderly-like gates that opened when they seem to know I was coming and I felt that I had entered a mysterious fantastic world. I was met by two greeters who ushered me into an astonishingly dark hallway that smelled of mold and cat….not happy cat.

Once my eyes adjusted to my surroundings I was awe-struck by the truth that was before me. The owners of this home were hoarders, and the animals that roamed about were not cared for.

I delivered what I needed to, drove over to the ocean and crossed paths with a trio of unhoused elderly men (hah! about my age!) who were lounging on a blanket having a picnic of sorts. One of them called me over as we have chatted before. They had been to church in the morning and were brain storming on what their plans for acquiring funds for the week were,  in wildly humorous creative spirits and genuine warm camaraderie.

Appearances…realities….what we think and what is….all ever fascinating.

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I do not chat about this chapter, but right now, as one who has been on the receiving end of blows to the face, the gut, and knife wounds, and one who takes calls from parents and young people in crisis, some of which are dealing with the aftermath of such things…..it is time that we all grow sensitivity muscles around what we see in the media.

When a blow to the face happens, one does not get up, and go about one’s business, and the neck, the ears, the eyes, the entire head region is in pain, ringing, going black and sometimes affected for a long time.

With a blow to the gut, one’s innards can be permanently rearranged and one does not get up and jump around a room delivering punches.

Knife wounds are a different story and even a small cut, creates trauma in the body and emotions.

We are growing a culture of no feeling….no connection to brutality….no true understanding of what we are taking in cellularly on a regular basis through our eyes, in the media.

We need to wake up.

To me? May Day is about kites dancing in the wind and freedom, and of course flowers. 

On my walk this afternoon I spied children romping with their families and playing with dogs.  

Let’s be more conscious of them; their bodies, their emotional strength, their spiritual freedom.

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If  Wind comes from the West, sit and look inside your heart for courage or answers. 

If it is from the South—stop pretending to know all the answers and find humility. 

If Wind comes from the North, the children know that the elders in their wisdom know where to look for them. 

If from the East they were to use good sense and logic.

And so, question of the day: Where do you live and from which direction does your Wind blow?

In California Wind blows most regularly from the West, but the Santa Anas blow from the East. And so we must sit and look inside our hearts for courage and answers as a rule, and when the Santa Anas blow, as they carry the fear of fire with them, we must use good sense and logic! 

Message received.

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Why is it, when faced with a garden full of blooming roses, do women spontaneously bend to sniff every single one, and men stand back, find a bench to sit on and pull out something to read?

Both clearly seem to revel in the beauty and vibe.

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How is it that you remind me of Dad’s hands, but you also look like Mom’s?

You needn’t answer that.

I simply want to take this moment to thank you.

Who would I be without you?

Thank you.

Let’s have a picnic.

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He was asked to define healing.

He closed his eyes,  he opened his eyes, he looked around,  and then he spoke.

“To bring one into harmony with everything.”

A child: ‘EVERYTHING? That is a LOT!”

A tree: “I watch creatures come and go, thinking but not noticing their world,  they look at me but do not see.  I will try harder.”

A bear:”Humans threaten my sacred space, my home. I get upset and exhibit fierceness. I will try harder.”

The wind: “I blow,  sometimes softly, sometimes wildly. I can wake people up, I can massage them into growth, I can calm their fears, but they are not open.  I will try harder.”

A sunflower:”I reach for the sun and along the way sprinkle my seeds to feed others and plant my own babies. And I am beautiful. And now I symbolize something BIG, but it is not working. I will try harder.”

A  rock:”We must shhhhhhhhhhh and hold each other.”

The Navajo elder stands and bows. “I will try harder.”

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And to honor all beloved creatures who companion, hold, and nurture our deepest human selves, as only they can.

You sprang out of Mama Lily onto Melanie’s bed to a chorus of screams, along with your thirteen siblings on the Ides of March thirty-three years ago! As you were the biggest and the lightest and a boy, YOU got the name that signified the day….though your gentle earnest ways were surely far superior to he who is famous for this day.

A time lapse of our years:

You were born six months before Hurricane Hugo hit us. As a result of Hugo, your broken leg did not heel properly and you destroyed your hip joint forever.  You lived with pain and challenges but you never complained.

You rode shotgun in the U-Haul when we moved from Charleston to NYC, leaving fleas behind but now a fourth floor walkup and Chows and Akitas to growl at on your walks in the park. 

You collected my clients’ socks and settled in under the massage table, listening to the woes of the world for years…you and I were the only ones who knew these tales.

You were my sole room-mate when empty nest happened and the girls left for college. We shared the morning bagel and the afternoon ice cream cone, and watched cloud reflections from our balcony in the windows across the way.

You were the person I was released to after my time in the hospital.

You were the wild puppy who romped when joy exploded and the  pillow that cuddled when the heart was broken.

You were at my side through all of the changes of dreams, professions and 9/11.

You and I sat on the promised rock, in the promised meadow in Boulder for weeks before you floated up into the great beyond, because I promised you that you would have a meadow one day.

You are a throbbingly alive being in my life story on this earth and I thank you for choosing me…US….on that crazy day thirty-three years ago, when Nina, at ten, read vet instructions and Melanie, at twelve, screeched her head off because her bed was a gooey mess.

THANK YOU, my heart’s friend and  please celebrate with heaven’s version of hot pretzels today.

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Every single morning, the first thing in our house was the radio being turned on and the New York Times being perused for news. And every single morning gasps of disbelief that there was little, if any, mention of what was going on.

As devastating as it is to continually be bombarded by images and information of what is going on in the distress areas of the world today, what an incredible gift. 

We get to see. We get to choose how much or how little to care, to be involved, to act.

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There’s something in the way she moves…hahaha…beetles, that is…that transports me there. And I greet her loudly each time.

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The word ‘disaster’ means ‘underworld to the stars’.

Much disaster to consider,

While we sit under the stars together.

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Tiny dog sitting on the lap of the driver on right.

Medium sized dog sitting in the passenger seat of the convertible on left.

Homeless woman holding up a sign on the corner.

Oh, to be someone’s dog.

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‘So what hood do you live in?”

“How do you know I’m not a visitor?”

“I can tell the tourists from everyone else. You’re not a tourist.” Silence.

Extending his hand, “Dick Traum, Achilles Club, Roadrunners, do you drive?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you drive?”

“Of course I drive.”

“No ‘of course’, this is New York, I need a driver for the marathon next week for the NBC camera crew.”

“What is Achilles Club?”

“The physically challenged”, knocking on his prothesis leg, “Lots of wheelchairs in the marathon, we meet early for a head start, you in?”

I met the team on Staten Island, pre-dawn, in the freezing cold and drove the camera crew truck through the five burroughs to hoots and hollers of ‘My God girl, you could make a living driving a cab if all else fails!”.

It did not…what an introduction to my years in NYC.

And I wrote and directed a short on the Achilles Club that won an honorable mention at the New York Film Festival! I love life.

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I watched the world in front of me freeze. Predators and prey…mirroring our human world…but here, the motivation is survival.

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Squirrels are gatherers. When one crosses one’s path, gathering is the message. Yesterday this one sat next to me and together we looked out. What are we to gather? On this first day of Lent? With spring on its way and the sun rising?

Trust. Trust. Trust. Thank you little guy.

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For years I have sat on the receiving end of phone calls of people in crisis/distress/sadness. I do not solicit, I am found, and in these times I am found A LOT.

I call myself a grief counselor if asked, because I’m not sure how else to define this, and though I have been officially trained, I do not counsel. Friends ask ‘What is it that you do? And why don’t you get paid?’ I never answer this because there is no answer.

I DO nothing, I just AM. That’s all. And the payment question? I am paid, but not in money. I am paid in that who I am seems to be of value to the hurt. I’m not sure that there is anything more gratifying than that and we all know this. What I do is not special, every single person can do this, I just seem to be on some mysterious radar. But no training, no method, no nothing but quiet listening is required.

Zing your antennae and see what happens!

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What?

I hear it on the wind.

Early 90’s in NYC…Tasti D’Lite has just invented itself (BLEH) but one’s inner commandant “You Must Try” as the initiating culprit. We obeyed. Spring, summer, fall and winter we trudged and sampled with enthusiastic anticipation in boiling heat, drenching rain and freezing sleet.

The final verdict? Ben and Jerry’s in the bath tub.

The winds are whipping about wildly right now and having their way with my inner knowing.

What is one to do?

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As the years marched forward, and this chapter passed, the labyrinth of life brought beauty and trials to her, as it does to every being, but she was ever aware of her connection to things greater than herself and this brought her strength.

Then another walk appeared. A walk of multiple years with no home and no soft landing spot of her own. Her one longing every night was for her own bed…a quiet bed…in a safe place.

It came.

Now, every single night, she thanks God for her bed, and every morning she greets the creatures and the sky outside her window with supreme gratitude. No matter what else might be going on in life, to have a bed is an amazing gift.

We often take for granted all that we have.

Prayers for every human heart that is in longing.

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The mind steps in to play.

Try Sri Lanka, the causeway at dusk, when sun drenched dark skinned fishermen are hauling in their white nets.

Try the breakwater in Michigan, skipping and jumping over waves that wash up, with Dad’s voice calling “Be careful!”

Try the temple at Mahabalipuram, sitting on stone carved cows while voices sing in the distance.

Try the beach at Sullivan’s Island, while we polka through gullies and soft sand.

Nope. It’s always Honfleur. Our sensory organs, our souls, know what they know and do what they do. We must listen.

Honfleur is a village in France where we, as a family, were quarantined for several weeks, en route to India, before being allowed into Switzerland. My sister was sick and so we were stuck. Joy! Joy! Joy! For me, as a six year old. Free as a bird while the family hovered over Margaret, I joined a ‘gang’ of French children and danced a maypole by the sea, fed an old horse snuck sugar cubes every morning, and spoke French when I had no idea how.

And so, the soul says, with pelicans swooping and seagulls meditating together in the sand, ‘Remember and smile, you are in Honfleur again.’

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It started to pour, just for a few seconds, what a gift.

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How can this be?

There is no answer. 

But if only a brilliant undeniably heaven sent cloud would appear with golden light blasting out sparkles spelling the message:

“There is no greater wealth than one’s own inner music”

The world and its people would experience another version of itself.

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And yet!

Every once in awhile one shows up to remind us. 

Flustra. Flustra. Flustra. Where oh where have you been all my life? 

Feminine softness. Cloudy floating.  Flower petal fields. Baby birds lifting up on whispery breezes.

The feeling is in alignment but you are off a wee bit. Nevermind.

But what does Flustra mean?

Flustra means ‘the calm sea’.

Oh my. How perfect!

Meditation is thusly named  ‘Flustra’. 

I love you, Flustra. 

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Seven years and three hours ago, my mom took her last breath. And so, this evening I sat by the ocean and wrote her a letter. Just at the moment that I was getting so weepy that I couldn’t write, she came and sat next to me. She said ‘Hello Francie’, and I said ‘Hi Mom’, and we sat and looked at the ocean together. Then I said “Mom! There are probably dolphins out there!” And she said ‘Oh goody! But you know my eyes, I can’t see in this light’. And I said ‘Me too, I can’t ever see them, my eyes are worse that yours!’ And she said ‘It’s very good that we’re so good at pretending’ , and I said ‘Very very good’.

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