I stood and watch this elderly golden, breathing him in with a swelled, appreciative heart. When I spoke to him, he came to me. A silent sharing, understanding of life’s chapters, and then his owner, in the distance called him, and off he toddled.

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The extremity of human reaction to the first snake bite can nearly kill one…and the reaction to the next is less…and the next is less, because of antibodies creating immune defense.

According to Native American medicine, the spiritual journey mirrors this, but the requirement is conscious inner work. Through this journey, ideally one reaches a plateau where there is no reaction at all to the bites, and ultimately one opens one’s arms to the Universe with the invocation “Bring it on! Please! Give me your best! I can carry it!”

And then what?

Do we romp in the meadows of the great beyond with our loved ones and prepare for the next round down below?

Alright then!

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The news this morning….tornadoes sweeping across the midwest with images that vibrate my bones. In 1989 when Hurricane Hugo hit Charleston, Sullivans Island was a direct hit, and this is where my two daughters, two golden retrievers and one rabbit lived with me, under my protection.

Tornadoes smashed the homes on either side of our funky old green house, spared us, but the hurricane blew ours off its foundation and surged plough mud through the first floor, ruining everything in its path.

We had evacuated to higher ground, and when the coast was clear, my older daughter Melanie, who was 13, and I boarded the ferry with National Guardsmen on attention and rode ‘borrowed’ bikes over to our house to see what was what….we passed family after family sobbing and standing in shock in front of what used to be their homes…and then we found ours. As heart wrenching as it was for me, it was traumatic for Melanie.

The aftermath included salvaging whatever we could that we three had managed to carry up a twisty iron staircase to the second floor a few hours before the onslaught…then, with the help of friends we moved to a temporary new home….tried to soothe our pets….and hang in together.

The golden retrievers, mother and son had not done well. Julius, the pup, had broken his leg a few months before and was still in a cast. The dramatic upheaval had destroyed his hip joint resulting in emergency surgery to have a hip replacement. As he was not full-grown, he had a life-time of dealing with a back leg that would pop out of its socket. Lily, his mother went insane. Crying none-stop and peeing in circles. A lovely group of elderly women who lived in a mansion on The Battery adopted her and basically held her in their laps for the rest of her life. Hazel, the rabbit caught a cold and died.

The rest of us? One more layer of life experience that lives in our bodies and hearts and now extends to those experiencing the same thing.

And PS……yes….Julius and Hazel….bless their hearts and souls….THE major characters in my children’s book series.

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In my early 30’s, as a single mother, living in Charleston, South Carolina, here was an active theater community. My antennae were perked but my hands were more than full because I was the sole bread winner for my daughters and my hands were literally full with baking cookies to sell to survive. Even so, my antennae could not behave themselves and insisted that I pursue. I called a woman who was a noted star in the Charleston theater community and asked her how one went about ‘getting into a play’. 

A few weeks later, The Post and Courier printed an add for auditions for “Seize the Street”, a roller skate musical to be presented at the upcoming Spoleto International Arts Festival, and I decided this was it. This sounded like a dream…I was a solid skater, I could sing and I could surely act. It did not occur to me, that the fact that I had an intense inability to be in the spotlight might be an obstacle. 

My girls, aged two and a half and five, rode with me to the auditorium for the audition. The advertisement had said that I would be asked to sing. We pulled into the parking lot and I suddenly realized that I would be on a stage. My heart, soul, brain and emotions fell through the floor, and shaking  tearily, I told my girls that I had made a mistake and I couldn’t do this. They had both absorbed my enthusiasm from the get go and this thud did not sit well with them. There was a role reversal. They looked at me seriously and said “You said this is what you have always wanted to do and so you need to do it.”

Oh boy.

We three got out of the car, and we three walked up the aisle of the auditorium holding hands. There was a young woman on stage, singing with sheet music and accompanied by a pianist. I froze and said ‘Let’s go”…and the girls held my hands. I signed in, suffered through professional sounding actor after actor  and my name was called. I was asked what I was to sing, as the pianist was on board and I said  ‘The Marvelous Toy’. I was humbled by feeing that I was eons out of my league…and a cappella was the only way as no one knew this song. I took a deep breath, looked at my girls in the front row and I did it. I got a major role. During the opening performance, Gian Carlos Menotti stood to lead the standing ovation, came up to me and said “You are a very funny, talented actress.”

Haha. Well…..my acting career lived only a few years as my fear of being spotlit did not recede, however, what came from this is that I created and directed an award winning children’s theater company in Charleston, called ‘The Magic Circle’…and from here young, some very young, actors grew wings…and some became adult professionals. 

My joy in the theater community, which is not alive in my world now was the community. The pulling out the stops to work together on bringing a story to life and then presenting it to others.The camaraderie…the fun…and lifelong friendships…the ecstasy of communal creation.

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The evolution intention of Aries is courage, which means to act in the face of fear. We must not let fear debilitate, disable or stop us, but rather feel the fear and go forward anyway. Again personally, respond rather than react….take in…be calm…be centered…and not shoot out with emotion and upset. We need to join together in this exciting time and stay strong.

And sit under a palm tree.

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Not so in Long Beach. I have no idea why, as the light is comparable here, I am near the sea and so the air should be similar, my own vibe is ever full of wonderment and appreciation, but no.

HOWEVER I have one lingering blossom on one plant that has not only not surrendered to becoming translucent and wafting off, but she is determined to remain vital, vibrant, and to arrange herself according to her plan, not mine. 

She has been sitting outside on a tea table for months, and I regularly..at least I USED to… position her so that she could reach for the sun. Every single day she repositioned herself so that she was facing yonder palm tree. 

There is no explanation for this other than the simple fact that she is in love. 

Bless her little heart and more power to her!

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Yesterday evening, after the No Kings Day gathering had come and gone, the quiet of nature called. I found a spot close to the Long Beach marina just as the sun was setting..seagulls and pigeons in herds…yes…beyond flocks.

Perhaps my relationship with birds began with my mother. She was a scholar. There was not a creature or greenery or artifact or geological formation that did not intrigue her, and she expounded comprehensively on every observation or discovery. Among these, birds.

India presented us with fantastical extraordinary plumage quite regularly, and perhaps in this she got spoiled, because if a pigeon crossed her path, she would wrinkle her nose with a squirmy expression and say ‘Pigeons!” as if they smelled bad…and if a seagull swooped in, she would frown and say ‘Go away!”.

Oh Mom.

So yesterday I watched this herd….and what a gift. All mixed in together, maneuvering around each other while discussing with squawks and shrieks, and clearly different from each other.

And so I investigated! Yes, our parents do live inside of us.

They are both highly intelligent in different arenas.

Pigeons’ have phenomenal spatial navigation, abilities, extraordinary memory of patterns and images, and the ability to distinguish between faces and photos, and recognize words and letters of the alphabet!

Seagulls’ cognitive ability compares to dogs and cats…they can problem solve, use tools, and they support their strong social structures through complex varied calls.

Pigeons and seagulls…working together behind the scenes right in front of us.

How beautiful!

What a gift on this particular day of fighting to keep our world moving forward in unity.

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Reflecting:

Decades ago, as a single mother, my daughters would periodically covet something of mine that I was not ready to ‘hand over’ and so the phrase for such moments became: “Can I have it when you die?”..hahaha…of course my answer was always ‘yes’.

As my years in my Malibu home marched forward, and the ever present awareness of my demise on the planet as a human became more real, I began a magnificent creative gift for my loves that would go on….a sort of art/spiritual/personal installation.

Every single ‘thing’ in my Malibu home had a story. I began writing poems, riddles, hints, along with arrows and 3-D add-ons with dried flowers and crystals to guide…and I wrapped and hid, complete with entire histories of each object, these THINGS in my carved Indian trunk, my grandfather’s poker table with a hidden drawer, my great grand father’s hand carved(by him) cherry chest, the tiny drawers in my mother’s carved mahogany desk from Paris….all over…the most elaborate fun filled adventure to be discovered after I go!

WELL…we all know what happened to my Malibu home.

During these 14 months since then I have written 7 books…3 are little ditties, the others, each very different from each other, but more substantial….I have NEVER considered myself a ‘real writer’…screenplays? YES…a visual and audio story teller? YES…but my soul needed to feel that my grand children would have SOMETHING.

WELL….I was and am shocked at the response to my books…they have sold so voluminously that a British distribution company has picked one up for international distribution….I want to THANK ALL OF YOU….thank you. This would not have happened without you. We are all here to touch and expand each others’ awareness, and that was all I intended for my grand children. What a surprise.

BUT, as Julius, my beloved golden retriever, is the star of several of the books, and his birthday was The Ides of March (hence his name), which is in tandem with the Oscars (once upon time ago I wrote speeches for recipients) and always dreamed of being ‘up there’ with my own triumphs, TODAY feels like the perfect day to thank you all. Again.

Now? My triumphs are in the depth and beauty of connection to you, of how each of us contributes to the world moving forward in our very own specific ways, together…it is a triumph simply to be here now with eyes and hearts wide open, expressing ourselves.

Let’s keep holding hands in this.

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I hear this often and I honestly do not know how to answer. And then she said, “I can tell I can talk to you.”

I shoved my papers aside and decided to go with the flow, and she let ‘er rip for an HOUR LONG monologue…her life at the moment. She fascinated me..visually, with intricately woven braids twisted into a semi beehive on her head, necklaces and bracelets shining and jingling next to her deep dark flawless skin, her layers of silky colored fabrics wrapped around strong fleshy curves and a mouth that did not stop moving. Sonya.

Sonya began by being irate at her own grown daughters’ entitlement and blasting the current culture of selfishness and then moved into sharing her own inability to turn away from others’ needs. She said that she had suffered in her life and cannot turn a blind eye to others…and she she said “I AM ONE BLACK LADY AND I TAKE ACTION!” She unofficially works with the Venice homeless and was screaming at how her non authorized role saves dozens of sweet lost souls. The particular program that she is currently on the periphery of, houses homeless for a year in a hotel in Venice. The hotel people get paid, and then the homeless are released to the streets after one year. She says that while they are in there, the conditions are horrific and the inhabitants simply continue their drugs and drinking because what else are they to do, and there is no to effort made to rehabilitate/counsel them…the city gets credit for “ helping the homeless” and they don’t care.

On her one day off, as she said that she needed some play time, she orchestrates a ‘day in the spa’ for neighborhood poor in her LA hood, and invites the children into her friend’s salon where they all have their fingernails and toes painted and their hair braided.

WHO is the angel, I might ask?

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I’ve been trying to reach him ever since this new war began and this morning I heard from him.

His news? Jordan is not directly being targeted, there are rockets flying overhead constantly on the way to Israel and they are all sheltering together, stockpiling food and whatever supplies they can. The borders are closed and the regional escalation will impact them dramatically. The Red Sea and the Arabian Sea are shut down and so water will be an issue. The staff is trying to keep the patients calm…they have all been through unimaginable terrors already and know the program. And now they are all stuck where they are together.

Active awareness…..prayers…..please….thank you.

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My mother’s mother was a formal, formidable aristocrat. She was born in the 1880’s at a time in history when women were not widely educated. She earned a college degree and in the early 1900’s became a librarian. My grandfather, as a young lawyer, fell in love with her at first sight in the library, and then when he was elected to the senate, there was a lifestyle that included Washington DC, white house balls, status and the works. And Gommy was a force.

I never knew my grandfather, but Gommy would visit us once or twice a year and when she did…tension reigned…’remember your manners’…as manners beyond manners…and ‘be pleasant’.

W-e-l-l. 1967-ish….spring break from boarding school….a welcome respite from institution life…freedom…long floaty dresses, loose hair and bare feet. What did I represent to Gommy? I can only imagine from here now. BUT in a moment, while I dashed around the corner in our upstairs and bumped into her while she was coming out of her room, she grabbed my face in her hands, she looked fiercely into my eyes, and she said “Remember your heritage.”

Obviously I have never forgotten this. And I chuckle. Of all of her grand and great grand offspring, I was probably the one least expected, in her mind, to remember the heritage…and yet I not only remember it, I treasure it, I’m grateful for it, I have balanced it, made it friendly in my own life…and ‘it’ has a way of living in every single thing I write.

We all carry our ancestors within us, even if we don’t remember them.

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For the almost nine years that I lived in my Malibu nest, every morning I would open my window wide and ‘my’ birds would come. It was magical. They came and sat on my fence and we said good morning and visited. During my last year a hawk joined. He was powerful and beautiful and I felt honored.

One of my greatest heartbreaks to having this chapter swept away, was this morning ritual.My birds.

Today I drove up, parked and stepped out into the wind and the silence of no humans, only nature and my whole self was so filled that tears pushed up and out like a gushing waterfall. And then a crow came and sat next to me. A crow. Not in my usual flock. And it squawked. I said hello. It squawked again. I said hello again. And then it flew away and a hawk circled. I watched it circle and circle and then it came down. It landed right in front of of me. I could hardly breathe. I said hello and I knew that it was my hawk. We sat and looked at each other for a long while, and then up it went. I stayed for two hours and when I drove back down to the main road, the hawk circled and flew above me.

What an incredible world.

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Two days ago another of my special friends was plucked by God, in her sleep, completely out of the blue to work from the other side.

One cannot live well into one’s seventh decade without having experienced the physical loss of loved ones…my best friend on earth at the time, in my 20’s…the next best friend in my 40’s…a deep love in my early 50’s….and on and on…but there is ONE that I never grieved. Not really.

My younger sister.

Margaret was 18 months younger than I. We had always been together, UNTIL:

When our family moved to India and I was thrust into boarding school at the age of 7, she was not old enough, at 5 1/2 and so as the jeep rolled away with me staring and watching her screaming face out the back flap, she grew a resentment against my parents that never subsided. A year and a half later she joined me at school and I became her caretaker/protector, solid ground and mother. She was my shadow and we adored each other, we needed each other.

We returned to the US seven years later and the next chapter flipped us both on our heads. I had felt at home in India and THIS LAND with its fancy perfect hairdos and clothing and Captain Crunch and entering a school where everyone seemed to know each other and how things worked, froze my brain. Literally. I had skipped two grades along the way and was known for being ‘exceedingly bright’, but now I froze. I couldn’t think or function in school. The verdict, after a couple of years of trying, was to send me off to ‘the best girls school in the country’ to fix me. I finagled my way into it on my writing.

Margaret had managed America much better than I…as long as I was close by, she was fine, BUT when I left all hell broke loose for her.

She and my mother were suddenly at open war, our relationship broke, and she never forgave me for abandoning her, and THEN:

When she was 36 and I was 37 1/2, she was living in Seattle with two tiny boys and I was living in Charleston as a single mother with two pre-teen daughters, she was diagnosed with brain cancer. Her husband couldn’t deal with her illness, my mother was helpless because Margaret didn’t want her near her and so I was called. For two years I flew back and forth, leaving my girls with various friends, trying to keep things flowing for Margaret and her boys, being with her through all of the gruelling procedures, and keeping my girls and my work in tact. I supposedly had the gift of healing, which I never claimed, and she asked me please to ‘do my thing’….and that did not happen. As a farewell gift to the world my father sent us both on an Alaskan cruise because she had always wanted to see whales. We saw none…but we spent the entire trip curled up with each other…in the cold on the deck…and then in bed…and then, when the cruise was over, she said that she was too.

I never ‘felt’ this loss. Not really. It was blocked. And then today….after the news of this other friend’s passing, I decided to drive to the beach…I HAD TO GO TO THE WATER…and on the way Cat Steven’s ‘Tea for the Tillerman’ played…my sister’s favorite album of all time….and I finally out of the blue….sobbed my heart out for Margaret.

Thank you, God.

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Ten day-ish ago….time? What has happened to linear time? Gone with the wind…..a breath-taking morning…I was walking and looking up…marvelling internally at the beauty of the trees in the wind, and I stepped on a rock and fell. I had the consciousness during the fall that this was not good, but I would be alright. I lay there…being sure that I was alright though it was dramatic…my shoulder slammed, my cheekbone hit, my hand did something and my leg…what was going on with my leg? And running though the humorous past of my brain “Help, I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up’ What was that commercial advertising….lifetimes ago? And then ‘Calgon, take me away”….but I did get up…I think my nerves were in shock.

SO I have an ankle with broken bones and a hand with a broken bone.

As time and the world rearrange themeselves, I am grateful for the slowing down that this has created. I hadn’t realized that ever since the fire I have been speeding….a million miles an hour….and this seemed to be the plan. SLOW HER DOWN.

Message received and I am.

Prayers for the world.

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A ‘friend’ on FB that I do not know but whose posts I respect and delight in, posted something this morning that has inspired this. His post said ‘anyone can have faith on a good day, the bad ones are the test’…and this created a moment of PAUSE.

My experience is the exact opposite…not only personally but with those that call me in crisis.

When in the depths of despair the heart and soul are more apt to turn to ‘desperate means’…often arenas that are not familiar, for support…and out of this often a relationship with ‘otherwise’ (God or Higher Power or The Universe or whatever one wants to name it) is born. When the immediate malaise subsides, there can be a laziness and untending to the connection, but the seeds spring back to life the next time they are needed. Ideally one waters these seeds with every breath and they ‘IT’ becomes a living part of you.

I tend to be private in the specifics of my connection to my higher power but am often asked and lately very frequently…’HOW do you manage all that you do????” HOW are you okay with all of the devastation that you have experienced?????” Etc, etc…

My answer is not wordable…but I shall share some stories that perhaps you can glean your own answers.

When I was 6 I was supremely abused by my kindergarten teacher for a year. Prior to the initial episode I had asked my father who God was (he was the minister of a Congregational church and therefore churchy things were in my life). He said “Imagine the most beautiful father you possible can…someone who you can tell anything and everything to…he will hold you and love you and take care of you no matter what.”

When the abuse began, because I was threatened to not tell anyone, I talked to God and asked for help, and THEN my father was assigned to India. I had been listened to. My experience in India was filled with upset, as my siblings and I were sent to a boarding school and I was bereft (to put it mildly)…but I believed that God was with me…and in the tree outside my window…and in nature…and in all the creatures around me and I healed…as a girl.

When I was 19 I had taken a leave of absence from my college. I went to work in a state institution in New Hampshire and I rented a cottage in the White Mountains. I worked the night shift and when I returned one morning a man was waiting for me in my cottage. I looked in his eyes and knew that he was mentally off. I survived what he did to me but was told that I would never have children. The entire time that he was ‘doing’ what he was doing I slipped myself into God’s hands….and I not only had two daughters several years later, but I delivered them naturally.

When I was 44, December 3, 1995, I was taking pictures of baby swans in Central Park in NYC..10:00 in the morning…a group of drugged out men attacked me. My intestines were so damaged that there were huge questions around how I was to go forward…again..I knew with my heart and soul that I was being looked after…my diet is EXTRAORDINARILY ODD…against all the rules that our culture think is ‘good for you’ and I am well.

In between and around these…I was homeless for 8 years in LA….and the home that I landed in and healed in for almost 9 years after that fiasco burned in January.

FAITH…SOUL KNOWING… GROWS STRONGER IN EVERY MOMENT OF DISMAY….and our job is to thank it and feel it and connect with it when skies are sunny and bright.

When people call me is crisis I do not share who I am or what I have experienced…. they find me through a mysterious grapevine…I do not advertise or charge…there is a soul recognition silently and people find their way through horrific sorrows. I believe it is though my connection to ‘something’ as I ‘do’ nothing.

And…having said all of this here…am I going to post this? Not sure……but a power animal (thank you, Scarlett) told me to start talking.

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THE APPROACHING SOLSTICE AND NEW MOON

This year the winter solstice on Sunday, December 21st, marks the END of a 12,000 year cycle…as the end of the age of darkness and the beginning of the climb back up into ascending cycles. In addition to this there is s shift of ALL of the outer planets from their previous positioning in the elements of water and earth to air and fire.

All of this adds up to the FACT that we are in an extraordinary time…a tipping point of consciousness.

Now…with the new moon on Friday the 19th, which is on the world access….which means it will have global significance…and the solstice on Sunday the 21st, THOSE THREE DAYS of energetic crescendo are momentous. Whatever going into your own personal quiet space is for you…these three days…go inward……a stroll and sit in nature…or candle gazing….or closing your eyes and dropping into breath…whatever you do for your personal stillness and connection, manifest beauty and peace….DO IT.

And have a lovely time as you co-create light and goodness.

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There is a tribe of women in our midst that moves and grooves, inspires and solidifies future generations silently, with no recognition.

And who are these women?

The single mothers of the 70’s and 80’s.

Otter Women.

Otter Medicine represents balanced female energy.

Otters are acrobats in the caring department, they are on the move and curious at all times, they will never

start a fight unless attacked first, they are joyful creatures who assume that all others are friendly unless

proven otherwise, they believe that the good fortune of others is to be shared and enjoyed, anchored in the

understanding that all accomplishments are worthwhile for the entire tribe,

Otter Women…these women are pioneers They were born and raised with the Donna Reed archetype, and

then in their mid teens, asked (required) to burn their bras and throw out their previously engrained

concepts of womanhood, get on the pill, speak up, be independent, and gallop fast and hard! All an

incredible beautiful powerful exciting rush, but wait a minute!

No one could think about or see the underbelly of what might lurk on the other side of this unexplored

territory.. no security and questionable respect. Not important in the moment.

Ten years later, they have had lovers, been married, had babies, decided ‘no, not forever with this man’,

left the marriage, and out into the blue with the children, shoulders back and knowing this was what

needed to be… passionate, determined, strong, with zero history in the respected work world. They had

grown up in a world where the word ‘divorce’ was whispered if spoken at all, and with the social

revolution no one had anticipated the falling through the cracks of these heroines, and to this day, they

are invisible.

Today there is a massive tribe of unrecognized women who brilliantly, courageously, by their wits raised

dynamic independent children who are now the adults of our society.

A sisterhood of crones and ‘soul knowing’ that the world could benefit greatly from if only it should

happen to wake up to their wisdoms and ways.

These grandmothers are the true queens of our world.

Otter Women.

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Flashback—Charleston, South Carolina—1984

After auditioning for a production of ‘California Suite’, the director pulled me aside, said that I was not right for any of the parts, but would I be open to meeting for lunch.

BOB!!!! And a long, deep, heavenly orchestrated friendship of gentleness, phenomenal beauty and tumult began.

I was 33, a newly single mother with two young daughters, directing a children’s theater company and trying to sort myself out….and Bob was a former soap star and Shakespearean actor who had walked away from it all to go to India and sort himself out. Now we were both in Charleston. And in a flash, instantly recognizing each other as ‘something’ but neither feeling available for anything beyond friendship. Beyond friendship…what is that?

We PLAYED. We investigated ancient cultures and healing modalities and travel fantasies and everything theatrical and musical imaginable and we PICNIC-ED…regularly.

One Saturday afternoon Bob called me and asked if I ‘had the girls for the weekend’ and no…so he said to meet him at Folly Beach at 6:00. The entire beach was ours…and there he was with an embroidered table cloth spread, RUSSIAN music playing loudly, the weirdest food imaginable mixed in with caviar and potatoes and a vodka concoction (which I minimally sipped)…and we POLKA DANCED and laughed our heads off. A young teenage boy drifted by in the midst of this and watched…and when Bob said hello, the boy said, “You two aren’t married are you.”…and we cheerfully hugged and danced some more and said ‘NO!” and he said ‘I didn’t think so, you’re having too much fun.“

Time time time and complexities…one of us wanted more….the other didn’t…and then Bob got a lymphoma diagnosis. He wanted to disappear into the African bush…no hospitals…no landing in someone’s lap…and so he joined the Peace Corps before his illness was obvious…and off he went. Bob died when he was 57 and I was 47.

I had his poetry…his love poems….his journals …his photographs in my Malibu home….of all people on earth he would be accepting of such a loss due to the elements….but I did LOVE having his written words in my care….WHAT TREASURES LIFE GRANTS US, in each other.

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Another old find–written 14-ish years ago–during the homeless years

MOUNT OF OLIVE

One spring weekend, lifetimes ago, my best friend, Samm and I escaped our New England prep school and hitchhiked up to her parents’ vacation home in Jeffersonville, Vermont. Nothing that she and I did together was ordinary and this adventure could so easily have ended in tragedy. We were picked up by a man who claimed to be an auctioneer and immediately charmed us with wild stories in syncopated language, when we suddenly realized that we were being driven the opposite way from where we were

headed. When we questioned him he totally ignored us and we chose to jump out of the speeding car. We were ‘rescued’ by a caring, fatherly man and driven to within a mile of our destination, being lectured passionately the whole way about the evils of hitch-hiking. We heard him. The moment he was out of

sight we stood looking at a pasture full of cows, in grateful wonder, and at the same split second we each noticed that one of the cows had a hoof poking out from her rear. Amidst chaotic scrambling and language we found the farmer whose cow it was and we three delivered the baby calf in the barn…together.

That evening, lounging by candlelight to the music of Judy Collins and a dinner of spam and peanut brittle, Samm climbed up on a chair and unhooked a prism from an elegant chandelier that was hanging over the dining room table. She held it up to my face, slowly twilrling it around and she said “You know

what this is, Plum?” “Yes” I said, “It’s a prism”, and she laughed with a guffaw that only she could rally at such a time,. and she said ‘NO IT ISN’T!” Silence as I re-grouped from her spell breaking outburst and she continued to stare at and twiddle the glass object in the candlelight.

“It’s a many things”.

“A many things?”

“Yes. Hold it up to your eyes and look all around you and you will see that everything changes with the slightest turn. Each of its sides is different so the light reflects the images differently and nothing looks the same, ever.

”Oh Samm, you brilliant shining star, I miss you. You were too much for this world!”

Right now we live on a mountain top with Olive and Ben, two canines, though Olive truly rules the roost. Every evening I drive and sit for an eternity in traffic and then, with one simple turn off of Figueora, I’m at the base of the mountain. My windows roll down and I take a deep breath. I can’t help but think that I’m ascending into heaven as I wind and climb and wind and climb up it’s steep and narrow road, into the light and quiet of this land above the din. A whole world up here that many locals don’t even know exists. Coyotes roam, skunks run amuck, winds howl, fennel grows wild.

And so it is, my ascension of the Mount of Olive, and as I look out I can hear Samm’s laugh and I see many things.

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SNAP!

On my way to meet a friend for tea this afternoon, I spied a garden full of snap dragons. There they were, all pink and yellow and perky, standing so straight and tall and smiling at me. And my brain whisked me on a sixty second journey.

My grandmother was a passionate flower officianado and an austere disciplinarian on the niceties of social graces. One day when I was very tiny, she called me over to her.

“Frances, come here dear. There’s something I want to show you”.

Gulp.

She reached over to an elegant porcelain vase and slowly withdrew a single snapdragon stem.

”Come closer.”

Gulp.”

You see dear…” and POP! My most serious grandmother began to play! She squeezed each blossom on the stem, opening

its mouth at me! And she said laughingly: “They’re little dragons! Here, you try.”

About nine years later when I was twelve and living in India, an Australian doctor lived in the bungalow behind ours. We shared a glorious garden which was brim full of giant snapdragons. One day I decided to pick him some and take them as a bouquet. I took great care in choosing the brightest, juiciest, lovliest.

Earlier that afternoon I had been watching my older brother master his bullwhip cracking technique on our front verandah and I happened to not be wearing my glasses. He had said “France, you look good without your glasses” and I was so tickled that I didn’t put them on for the rest of the afternoon. Hence

when I went to deliver Dr. Horace’s flowers to him I was without them. I knocked on his door, he answered, I presented the flowers, and back he boomed: “Vanity is thy name oh woman, where are your glasses?” A small part of me still shudders.

About eighteen years later my own daughters were very young and I had grown some exquisite snapdragons in my own southern garden. I showed my four-year-old, Melanie, how to snap the little

dragon mouths. To her delight she could oh so gently squeeze the blossoms making dragon kisses on the cheeks and nose of her baby sister, Nina, who cooed and batted her lashes langorously in response.

One little snapdragon garden.

My oh my what a wonder the mind and memory are.

And I was on time for tea.

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Last year on November 22nd, the Malibu Fire burned from Pepperdine down PCH with mandatory evacuations for everyone on my bluff. I drove through the fire…my car was wounded…but I found refuge on Mount Washington with my sister friend and her husband.

We had had warnings for this one. I had loaded my car with my dearest treasures…my father’s briefcase and hand written documents on his life work, my mother’s diaries from living in Paris in 1938, Indian paintings, significant thises and thats, Norman’s poetry, my daughters’s childhood creations and on and on. My car was loaded and I was safe.

We all returned to our homes several days later…put our households back together, sighed a sigh of relief and welcomed the holiday season.

Hanukkah, Christmas, my birthday and New Year’s came and went with gratitude and joy.

And then. The morning of January 7 I went out on my bluff and looked down at Pacific Palisades…the smoke…billowing out over the ocean…but it was TEN miles away….surely we were safe…surely they would put this out before it reached us.

Two hours later…at the door of my home…frantic knocking…’IMMEDIATE EVACUATION’ no time to grab a single thing….I scooped up the dragon rug from my kitchen and a pile of laundy on my dryer and ran…drove through a fire….and back to Mount Washington.

And the rest? You all know. The fire wwas mighty and every single thing turned to ashes.

But now?

My friends who had sheltered me were in the midst of a move themselves…hence I stayed on Mount Washington for several weeks and then moved with them. They had bought a magnificent home in Long Beach that included several rental units in the back garden. One of these wee units has been my home for these months….with loving support.

I am well. I am flourishing in a new way. I have mourned my losses and the sadness has become a part of my life story but does not overpower the beauty and joy that I experience daily….and yet…to be here at this very time of year….there is a vibrational traumatic response to the air…to the light….to the fire….but again…this does not overpower this sacred time of year…another year…to be here on this earth with the love and camaraderie of my family and friends.

THANK YOU ALL….and LOOK at those smoke filled clouds….whew….life on earth.

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‘Quiet’ has been my soul’s desire for these last weeks while finishing a series of children’s books that I began lifetimes ago and now culminated in the Grand Poobah of “The Big Story”.

In the midst? Ponderings and bubble-upses of thises and thats on the subject of art.

Picasso said that it took four years to learn to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to learn to paint like a child.

“Art does not need critics, it needs friends. It is a fragile enough light as it is. It can be blown out by a single sigh. Art needs friends, with our bodies against the wind and our hands around the flame until its strong enough to burn brightly with its own power…until it’s an inferno unstoppable.”

“Art is a fragile magic, just like love…and humanity’s defense against death. We create and paint and dance and fall in love..that’s our rebellion against eternity. Everything beautiful is a shield.” …and Van Gogh wrote “I always think that the best way to know God is to love many things.”

And this is WHY quiet….critics are everywhere….and we become our own if not careful.

“I said to my soul be still ….and in the stillness the dancing.”

In the quiet the child sings.

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“The time has come,” the Walrus said,

“To talk of many things:

Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—

Of cabbages— and kings—

And why the sea is boiling hot—

And whether pigs have wings.”

What do we want to leave behind for the next generations?

AI as avatars? Which basically is about searching for immortality through machines.

Is that what we want?

OR

Do we want to leave pathways, rituals, ceremonies, sacred exercises, writings, wisdoms and teachings on how we have managed this physical world and succeeded in penetrating it with spirit?

NOT how we have surrendered spirit and engrossed ourselves in a holy endpoint of materialism….

BUT how we have integrated and realized ourselves through matter, as artists. .

Music, dance, mysticism…this is the time for our elders to bring forth spiritual reality, spiritual truth, without which there is loneliness, separation, depression, lack of integration, and lack of imagination.

We need to uphold and commit to a deep sense of participation in the social processes which will affect all people and move all toward a greater life. We need to relay the harvest of our conscious experiences and deliberate endeavors to the as yet unborn children!

Tell your stories!!

Shout your sagas, your triumphs, your challenges, your family tales to one and all!!!

There is value in each and every one!!!

Your soul will smile and your gift will be one of LIFE!!!!

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No Kings Day tomorrow…warrior time….the contradictions of one’s humanity crystalizing in this moment on earth to FIGHT.

The ‘I am grateful for everything my parents gave me and I have empathy for everything they could not give’…not here. Maybe at home..maybe in our soul selves…NOT HERE.

Our country, our people, our future needs us to show up as warriors FIGHTING.

HOPE, FAITH and KNOWING what is right is the foundation.

Jane Goodall’s words: “If we lose hope, we become apathetic.”

And so the mantra for this battle?

I will keep faith, even when the path ahead is unseen. For hope is the light that survives the storm, and I—I am the storm turned into light.

Let’s show up tomorrow BIGTIME.

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Just another evening. 

Seagulls line up at dusk, settle into the sand, close thier eyes and face the ocean.

Pelicans float in the water,  splashing haphazardly, and altogether face out to sea. 

The wind is a factor, as feathers being smoothed rather than ruffled a good choice, but the calmness…the soul knowingness…the sweetness. 

One has to wonder about the glory and might of the setting sun, the end of the day, and being present with one’s flock. The holiness.

And now? To head down the 405 in major traffic…a flock? The yin and yang of it all.

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Feelings. Sacred in that every single one is unique to its owner. And here they come again.

Eighty-five years ago today my parents married. They were ‘one and only’ to each other before that day and for the following sixty-seven years. They were a team, not without their differences, but solid in their respect, commitment and passion for each other and why they were here.

They met on a blind date set up when my mother was at Smith College, by her brother, who was a friend of my father’s at Dartmouth. My father’s name was Telfer Mook, and my mother thought that she was going to meet an eskimo. Very soon after this meeting/date, my mother sailed of for France for her junior year abroad at The Sorbonne. She fell in love with a Jewish poet, this was 1938, and in the midst of their love he was ‘taken away’ and she never heard from him again. She and my father wrote during this entire time.

When my mother returned to the US, Dad was in Yale Law School and mom was accepted as a doctorate student at Yale in art history, with a focus on medieval art…and the rest of their pre-marriage story is history.

My mother’s father was senator of Iowa, and my father’s Yale class was hefty…Byron White, Gerald Ford..and Hubert Humphrey was circling dad…he wanted him to run for congress…Henry Wallace was a friend of the family and behind this…and the idea was that they would live a ‘Washington life’ and help move the world to a better place.

They got married and Dad set up a law practice in Des Moines…always fighting for those with no voice…the poor…the disenfranchised. World War II was happening and called.

Dad’s experience in the South Pacific, on Tinian, changed his life forever in that when he returned home, he announced that he wanted to go into the ministry. He was not an evengelizer, per se, but felt God and through his actions and life work wanted to be of service.

HENCE the White House ball gowns and hand written notes from the Roosevelts, that were just a wee moment in their lives, but a token of what could have been a road but was not chosen, burned in my fire….and so too the briefcase that held diaries and prayers of my fathers…and diaries and prayers of my mother’s…as they went forward in their lives of service to India….at a time when it was TRULY a foreign land.

And they were a team.

Sacred feelings about this day….and joy in my heart for having known these two.

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Every time OATS cross my path, ’Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey’ rings forth. MOM! Little did you know the multitude of thises and thats that you planted in my being when I was very young would last decades and be passed along. Little do any of us know, as parents.

Flashback:

1969—Sandwich, New Hampshire

The summer between high school and college I was hired by a family friend to take care of her four children and four horses on a two hundred acre estate in the White Mountains. Besides temporarily incarnating as Maria von Trapp, complete with guitar, songs and peasanty garb, I became a horse woman extraordinaire and stable girl.

The oats that my horses loved were coated with molasses and the whole barn’s intoxicating earthy sweet aroma contributed to my willingness to spend extra time mucking around cleaning stalls, brushing and braiding manes and tails and listening to the above tune have its way with me in my head, throughout.

The Present:

Apres my surgery I have been commanded to gain weight as I am on the frail side and this is not only not acceptable to my medical team and friends, but to myself as well…hence calories…hence ice cream.

Landing in my lap with this announcement was Oat-Ly Ice Cream…and with my first bowl full, here came my mother’s voice again, whimsically dancing through the decades, but this time I paid attention. ’Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat ivy’….and WAIT A MINUTE. Is that true?

Mare do eat oats, I have witnessed this, preferably if they are molasses coated, but does do not eat oats, they eat everything else and ruin gardens. As for little lambs and ivy? Ivy is NOT the preferred diet choice for lambs because in large amounts it as actually toxic. They like grass.

Whoever, wherever ’Mairzy doats and dozy doats and liddle lamzy divey’ came from, someone was high on something…or bored and entertaining him/her self….or simply pouring heart and soul into being playful and the world listened.

Hmmm.

Meanwhile, ICE CREAM.

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Heat. We, in California are so spoiled…it is rarely hot…it is rarely cold…and any deviation from 60’s and 70’s temperatures creates much ado. But it is actually hot at the moment!

The universe is speaking.

What to do?

Seek out a spot…by the water, among he trees, and sit still.

One’s inner stirrings become quiet….ripples of water, fluttering of leaves.

Everything that needed doing can wait.

Is this why we were given this heat?

In body and soul and environment?

Maybe…maybe…to wake up to stillness.

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Tubes out!!! Joy! Joy! Joy!

The sweetness of freedom,

the beauty of the body,

the miracle of healing,

and now, HERE!!!!

Wings spread and fins flapping….

***Stop right there.

Go away!

***Stop. Unfluff those feathers and quiet those flippers.

No flying, No diving, no cavorting about.

For now.

Obeying in not my strong suit.

***Noted. But this time you must.

Says who?

*** You do.

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During this post surgery chapter, I am allowing extended magic carpet rides in my brain to have their way with me. You are hereby invited to join me on the gift of the moment….let’s go!

There is a craving within to be near water, always, go! There’s the ocean! So big, too big, lie down next to it and get a grip. Face down in the wet. Breathe in the wildness of sea and earth. Now, slip out of your clothes, stand up and sufi twirl until the twilring creates an altered state, and then go! Full steam into the ocean, head on, for the first giant breaking wave. Dive into the wave and then let it carry you, be the water, be the earth, be nothing, again and again and then, when you can not move one more inch of yourself, and you hardly know what self you are, let that self wash up in silence onto the beach.

Sit quietly until the stars come out.

Very Good.

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Post Fire Reflections

The sorrow, inexplicably expressed but dealt with around the loss of home, its treasures, its haven-ness, its memories, itself…the little ghosts that stilll appear out of the ether and the mind, writings, baubles, heirlooms, everything with a story…that hadn’t been thought of and therefore not missed, and then, POP! Another one…a caught breath, a blanket of sadness and a sigh…but there is a softness that is replacing the sharp hurt.

Somewhere I read once,

“The friendship of the wind, always returning

With news of elsewhere, whispered in seed and pollen,

The thin symphonies of birdsong softening the silence,

Cascades of sunlight opening and closing days,

And the glow of moon gazing through darkness.”

Whether it is a sacred home, or a beloved country, or a time on the planet,

Beginnings, Endings, and Beauty are LIFE, and always will be.

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Two days ago I had a surgery. I felt positive and strong moving forward, but hidden underneath apprehension was present as well. The moment my clothes were discarded and hospital garb put on…nakedness of body and being among loving professional strangers, my apprehension disappeared and total surrender took over.

On the other side of the operation, here, now, I am experiencing gifts that I was not aware of needing.

The plan had been that one of my friends would collect me in Marina Del Rey and drive me down to my wee nest. I would be checked in on by another friend who lived yards away. This plan was aborted with my overwhelming reaction to the anesthesia, as I was weak and nauseous and simply out of it. I was delivered to my friend’s home across the way, with warm arms and a beautiful room and embraced in nightingale care. Angels of mercy….both…FRIENDS…my beautiful friends.

I am being cared for with pure generosity of spirit…allowing me not to feel obligated or anxious, and with this SLEEP. Anesthesia is a powerful drug. I sleep and sleep and with this another unrealized gift. We humans, in this time, do not rest. We think, we concern ourselves with a thousand ‘things’, we create, we plan, we DO. I am undoing, bigtime. No anything.

I recommend this.

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As today’s Lionsgate portal, a vibrationally throbbingly impactful event, grrrrr-ed at me early this morning, I decided to drive up to where my house used to be before the fire…my sacred sanctuary.

In the quiet of birds’ chirps and rustling leaves, the ocean spread out below and only puffs of wind.

The Great Unknown wafted.

May it Bless Us All.

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This morning on the news, a reminder that 80 years ago today ‘the bomb’ was dropped on Hiroshima.

A personal story:

In the early 40’s, as a recent graduate of Yale Law School, married and with a tiny son, my father had opened a law practice in Des Moines, Iowa, but felt the need to support our war effort and so he went to Washington, DC. He marched into naval headquarters and asked how he could serve, knowing that lawyers were ‘useless’. He was met with “We’ve had our eye on you and we’d like you to be a guinea pig.” We had entered the war with Japan and needed officers who could speak Japanese.

My father was one of 20, including the head of philosophy at Columbia University, the leader of the Boston symphony, and 17 others of wildly diverse backgrounds, to be part of an intense learning program…five years worth of Japanese, including reading and writing, in SIX MONTHS in Boulder, Colorado.

My father’s assignment was to sail to the Marina Islands, specifically Tinian, as this is where the US was to build an air base. He was involved in the brutal takeover of these agricultural islands…horrific…and was the interpreter who talked the residents off the cliffs and out of the caves. He was then put it in charge of the huge internment camp that included 3,000 children.

This is a powerful story…(and yes I have written the screenply which is yet to find a home)

BUT/AND….he felt that the children in the camp needed to be in school..and so with zero official help, rallied the airbase builders when they were off duty and trained prisoners in the camp to teach…and built a school…a phenomenal school…50 years later he was flown to Japan for the Japanese version of ‘Good Morning America’ and hundreds of his students…now professors and doctors…met him and thanked him for his compassion, effort and brilliance in creating this ‘School for the Enemy’.

BUT/AND the reason that I am sharing this at this moment is that on August 6th, not knowing what the mission of the Enola Gay was specifically…my father and a large gathering of children stood and watched the plane take off for Japan.

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Right now we are in the vortex of The Lionsgate Portal. This significant happening occurs every year around August 8 and is believed to be a powerful time for manifestation and transformation, from way back in ancient Egypt. The union of the sun in Leo, associated with courage and creativity and the star Sirius, which ignites rebirth, creates an energetic gateway between the physical and spiritual realms.

We are being given an incredible opportunity to impact the course of our world. This is real. Free yourself from “too woo woo for me”, and imagine the world that you want. You are needed.

Become still and align yourself with the needs of the children of earth.

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When the depression hit, our family was impacted dramatically. Being devoted to Iowa, its land and people, my grandfather had invested the entire family fortune in Iowa farmlands and POOF…everything was lost during the 30’s. Nanny could no longer be employed but she stayed. When my mother became a mother, Nanny was our ‘hands on’ grandmother, where our ‘real’ one was aristocratically distant.

When we sailed off to India, Nanny was left behind, and now, at this stage of life, I wonder about this. She lived alone for her remaining twenty years. My father helped her financially but with the passing of time she was quite blind and deaf. She was not a social butterfly, and so she lived alone in Concord, New Hampshire, in her little apartment, occasionally watching Ed Sullivan, and what else? I do not know.

We are so incredibly fortunate to have the means to communicate with each other as we do….….to have medical assistance for our eyes and ears…to be entertained if we need to time out from life and/or to grow our worlds through visual story telling…sometimes we forget the simplicity of this, as we are so immersed in the twisting and turning of the world. Those on whose shoulders we grew…who contributed humbly to who we and what the world is…we need to quietly thank them.

Nanny loved her snifter of brandy…and to make the most lusciously delicious shortbreads and pastries that live on in our holiday repertoire…and way before we went to India “Holy Cow” was her favorite expression. THANK YOU, NANNY.

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Background to the present…many of you are familiar with the cliff note version of this.

December 3, 1995—NYC

Whilst attempting to capture images of a mother swan and her new babies on the Nikon camera that had just been gifted to me, I was ambushed by a group of thugs, badly beaten, resulting in a number of surgeries. Most of these surgeries were executed by sensitive, elite professionals but in the very last one I was intubated by a careless, aggressive doctor, which resulted in damage to my throat and larynx…forever. Hence I secretly have held a passionate aversion to the idea of ever being intubated again…my dramatic self saying “I would rather die.”

The present:

Well….the universe has presented me with a new opportunity to face this wounding/fear.

In a few days I am going under the knife for something which I did not feel was ‘a big thing’ but is apparently intense enough that INTUBATION is required.

A jolt ran through me….pure panic…and then I had to laugh…the Universe has its way.

The mind can believe that it is calm…in surrender and trust…but one’s innards tell the truth:

Deep deep trauma lies in our cells and we can either deny or embrace this…and so I shall embrace even as the imagination transports to sitting by the sea and watching sea lions romp and pelicans splashing.

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Yesterday a birthday. Two birthdays. A single calendar day honoring two entirely different loves and chapters …lifetimes apart….one no longer here and one barely beginning her journey.

Dates have always naturally embedded themselves in my awareness, and with the passing of years, as there are only 365 days in each, there is often a double or triple significant something that each date represents…and with each the marvel of what has been. There is a tessering affect with double/triple-ups in that each memory is in its own time but with this they time travel themselves, blend and then separate. One becomes an eagle is viewing…what a gift…to see who and where you were with each…something that rarely happens in the busyness of being present.

The ‘passed’ love would have been 87 yesterday…we were young-ish when we were together and he has been gone for many years…and the other love? My light bright incredibly gorgeous grand daughter who is now 14….with a magic carpet of life spread out before her.

The beauty of life on earth….all of it.

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Oh Sacred Day!

Flashback—July 22, 1976—Excelsior, Minnesota

A tiny cottage perched on a grassy hill over-looking Lake Minnewashta. Black fly season on its way out, overlapping with mosquitoes on the way in, and lilacs burying the front porch in full bloom. Heat, wind, sparkling water and the baby inside of me two weeks late on making his/her appearance. 

Adhering the doctor’s commands on patience, rest, and “I’ve never seen one NOT come out, it will happen, but you must store your strength”, I decided to not obey on this day. My garden had crossed the line in mild disarray to “Where are the flowers among this mish mash of weedy greenery?”, and heat did not bother me. My husband’s work in the hospitality industry was going to take him late into the night on this day, so I was free as a  bird to work away. And so I did. I finally collapsed into bed at midnight, barely able to move, and half an hour later he dragged home and we fell asleep.

Fifteen minutes later. JOLT. WHOA…what was that? WHOA…I know what that was.

We made it to Northwestern Hospital in Minneapolis an hour later and labor was in full swing. I, following the exact predictions that women in this stage do, was loudly telling my husband to go away. Thirteen hours later, Love arrived. Melanie Lucy. The most beautiful being I had ever seen, my heart melted and morphed into a new version of itself. 

Thank you, my darling girl/woman. The heart has its own language and no words suffice.

You are forever lilacs and summer breezes and golden light and heat and dancing to your rhythm. Love.

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My beating heart joined them.

Flashback, March, 2009

A series of partially unforeseen, partially slow moving, non reversible tides, swept into Norman’s and Oberon’s (golden retriever) and my beautiful craftsman cottage, five blocks from the Santa Monica beach and we had to walk out, putting the most treasured possessions into storage and garage sales-ing the rest, saying goodbye to our life as we knew it and OUT into the world of homelessness…literally living in our old black Subaru station wagon for EIGHT YEARS. Volumes and volumes of stories lived and written from those years, and a soul knowing the entire time that someone had to walk this walk who would talk about it…noone can imagine what it is like unless one has lived it…and the immense difficulty in getting ‘out’…even with fancy degrees and imaginations.

IN THE MIX …and at the heart of ‘it all’….beauty in every moment right alongside the trauma…in nature…in fellow humans….in the minute blessings of each day.

BUT/AND the ‘before the wave hits’ fear of seeing what’s coming, to the genuine rolling in as one ‘Oh my GOD’ giant wave’ , takes one to one’s knees.

The life force that lives within each of us is a mighty thing…one can stand up, again and again, and each time an expanded knowing and compassion accompanies that stand.

The world will still be there and needs us.

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Byron’s Birthday!

Flashback 1955, Frankfort Michigan

Before India we lived in Concord, New Hampshire, and after India we lived in suburban New York. No matter where we lived, if we were in this country, Frankfort, Michigan, on the shores of the great lake, was our JULY.

All six of us would crowd into an old station wagon, plus labrador retrievers, plus tortoises, balancing paper bags with liverwurst sandwiches and thermoses of milk. Laughter, grumbling, stickiness and excitement all rolled into one to drive a third of the way across the country.

Lake MIchigan. I can still smell the air, hear the waves and feel the wind. It is different than anywhere else on earth.

My oldest brother Byron was born before World War 2, hence he was silently ‘not one of us’ and adored by all….and his was the only summer birthday.

On this day we would all…dogs too…hike down to the beach before the sun set, collect driftwood, build a fire, spread blankets and feast on sand crunchy hot dogs, roast marshmallows and hunt for petoskys, all the while simply BEING…a family….together…eating, laughing, celebrating one of us….simply being.

Every moment of life on earth is brim full of something…as the sun sets now on my pelicans and sea lions on this July 18.

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A buzzing…familiar from a lifetime of insect cohabiting…there was no doubt. Fly buzz is particular. With no specific feelings around flies, other than my India years hummed with, “Flies are filthy, flies are filthy”, hence I’d rather they buzz elsewhere.

My moment to catch the setting sun down by the ocean suddenly caught me, hence shuffle shuffle, close the windows and lock the doors, but there buzzed the frenzied wee being, trying to GET OUT but was obsessed with a certain window pane. Sigh. I shooed him/her with my hands…then a magazine…then I blew on him/her…stubborn fly. That window was the window of choice, but that one did not open…and he/she was getting tired, the buzzing low and gravelly.

I left.

The sky was overcast and the wind damp and chilly, and as immersed as I was sensorily, my mind…my mind…was now concerned with the fly.

Then.

From the mysterious depths, I flashed on my father’s last hurrah. Dad’s last 105 days on earth was on my turf. California was not his world, his friends and supporters were nowhere around, he had come out here for his birthday, a few months after Mom passed, and landed in the hospital in crisis. Every single day I was his…at his side.…but the truth was I had a pulsing upset so deep and real that it all felt like an act…I was wanting to run away every second. For all of these years I have dealt with, worked with, and attempted to heal my feelings of guilt for not being a hundred percent. But/and Dad’s journey was his. Period. We each play roles in other’s lives, paths overlap, the lessons are there, and ultimately it’s about respecting each other and ourselves.

Back to the fly. With this, I decided to accept the fly’s decision, thus freeing me to be present with the ocean and the wind.

PS…no sign of him/her when I returned home, but I thanked him/her wherever he/she was.

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Summer heat, ocean breezes and plunging, and flashback to cool summers in northern Michigan and my first boyfriend…as a sixteen year old…in the mid 60’s.

Bill…Norwegian heritage…carefree, fun and sensitive artist/ gymnast. We zoomed and splashed our way across and around Crystal Lake in his hydroplane when we weren’t porpoise diving down into the lake…and for three years, our summer ‘thing’ held through the remaining seasons. My mother scowled rather regularly at his habitual eradication of every single raspberry in the fridge, and the fact that he didn’t seem to understand that her aging mother required spit spot manners and ‘he must stand when I enter the room’…but Bill was wonderful and our late night beach star gazing nights were allowed without question, but midnight was the outerlimit of my curfew.

Then one night we fell asleep on his cottage porch curled up under a blanket and the hours passed. I woke to a flashlight winding its way up the wooded path and my father’s voice “Francie?” He flashed the light on us and then doused it quickly, turned his back and said “Come on”. I jumped up and pulled myself together crying “Dad! It’s not what it looks like! Really…we were just snuggling…really….you have to believe me!” Bill sleepily woke up and sat up and said “Wow! Sorry! What time is it?”

“Francie, get in the car, I need to talk to Bill.”

“Dad, I promise it was just a mistake, please don’t be mad at him.”

“Get in the car.”

Dad went on up to the porch.

“Bill, you need to hear something very important.”

“When you are with a girl, or a woman, you need to be responsible. Your reputation won’t be affected in any way, but hers could be, forever. If I had been anyone but who I am..someone who did not know the two of you, flashing a flashlight on two young people, clothes questionable, under a blanket in the night, terrific damage could have been made to her reputation. I want you to promise me that you will take care of any woman you are with. Privacy…behind locked doors.”

Bill told me later that he was terrified but that my dad was the coolest, and years later he told me that he kept his promise.

I was grounded for a week.

Perhaps old fashioned particulars, but integrity and responsibility are never old fashioned.

Summer Breezes!

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Yesterday I visited my bluff…again. It was the six month anniversary of the last full day living in my cottage…my haven….little did I know it would be the last. But yesterday I breathed in the silence all ‘round. No humans, no activity, only the sound of the wind in the trees, the feel of it on my face and in my hair, and I felt the sacredness of it all. The temporaryness of everything.

And the beauty.

The five fruit trees that greeted me every morning are in various stages of recovery, each dancing to its own tune very clearly, just as we all are.  

The apricot tree, which never matched the fruit delivery of the others was dancing and laughing in lush greenery. The lemon tree, which had always been queen of the hop, no matter what, with an abundance of giant juicy bright yellow orbs, stood naked with a few shrivelled up brown marbles on its branches, with only a few new green leaves beginning. The nectarine tree, always fickle, now laden with strange hard as a rock fruit,  and the orange tree is just now beginning to blossom as if it is spring, 

THEN…., my fig tree….my sweet friend who perched right in front of my door. Her beauty made me cry. She is trying. She has broad shiny haphardly spaced leaves and lots of tiny figs that don’t seem to want to grow, but THEN…there, hidden behind one branch, the two most gorgeous ripe majestically purple figs I have ever seen. 

I picked them, held them, and laid them on the steps of what used to be my home as an offering. 

Joy.

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THEN…a call two days ago from a Malibu former neighbor whose gardener’s brother had been taken by Ice and now this man’s family in horrific upheaval. His oldest son suicidal, younger siblings terrified, his wife hysterical, and I was on the phone for four and half hours listening and being. Yesterday the entire family disappeared. Maybe they are in hiding? Maybe, maybe, maybe.

As a wee babe, before I could walk, I climbed. My mother has dramatic, hilarious stories of the escapades that I needed to be ‘rescued’ from…as in SEVEN times by the fire department before I was three…shinnying up flagpoles, climbing out on the upstairs porch and hanging from the phone line cable, etc, etc. I was scolded and intensely commanded to behave otherwise. The particular form that this drive embodied was squelched, but it is alive and well and has shown up in a multitude of ways through the years.

Every one of us is born with a burning light, our very own unique flame and now is the time to uncover it, look it in the eye and say”‘Let’s do this!”..for ourselves, for humanity, for our beautiful planet. We are being corralled into being afraid and weak, and our job is to do the opposite.

It is TIME.

Climb, Leap, FLY.

The children of the world need us, this is our job.

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After years in the theater world, once upon a time ago, I am privy to all the moving parts…casting, choreography/blocking, memorizing, personalities, technicalities and on and on, and basically in 8 days this most incredible production was pulled off in GLORIOUS perfection.…Thirteen, fourteen and fifteen year olds in a musical…tough guy roles, tough babe roles, sweetie pies, and dorks….singing, dancing and PLAYING…tears and joy in my heart…there’s hope for the world!

Afterwards, after the flower bouquets and well-earned over the top compliments, Luciana sat in the car and said, “It was great but I feel sort of sad now. It’s all over.”

My mother introduced the world of stories through books to me when I was tiny, and forever books have been my comrades beyond conscious knowing. For these months since the fire, I have been quiet, wings folded around myself for the most part, appearing ‘normal’ when venturing out…but in between…being transported and expanded again and again into other worlds. A couple of months ago I discovered an author by accident, with whom I am now officially in love. I read each of her books and today I finished re-reading the first one. Her gift to me during this time as a healer through her writng will live with me forever.

Today? I am with Luciana…”I feel sort of sad now. It’s all over.”

Thank you, Charlotte McConaghy, my heart and soul are becoming acquainted with the latest version of self, and You have been a force in this.

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Yesterday, on my meander towards the rose garden, which prior to the fire had been almost a daily ritual, I crossed paths with many familiar families and dogs. The roses were in wild bloom, the wind in the palms creating a background swish, and baby squirrels running amuck. As I headed back towards my car I approached an elderly man who was navigating slowly with his walker. He was trembling, but walking resolutely and when he saw me he looked straight and hard at me.  He stopped just as we were about to pass each other, so I stopped as well and said ‘I’m just enjoying this beautiful day!” He moved one of his hands off the walker and motioned a solid thumbs up and his eyes sparkled into mine. 

Another lovely moment on earth.

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When I moved back to NYC from Charleston, SC in 1990, one of my greatest soul joys was listening to the conversations of everyone around me. LIFE! Bigtime….passionate expletive-filled discussions on world happenings, unrestrained airings of relationship issues, hyped up bargaining banter spilling out from bodegas, enthusiastic hailings that could include a whole neighborhood, and every language imaginable.

A juiciness that hummed in the heart with the amazingness of this family of mankind of which we are all members. LA is different.

Today, on the Seal Beach Pier, eyes closed and listening, I was present and transported at the same time. Around me…and passing by me…

“What are you doing???”

“I’m being a pirate!”

“What do you mean?”�“That’s what happens to me whenever I see the ocean. It makes me think I’m a pirate.”

“You have to throw it back.”

“No!”

“You have to, it’s too small.”

“I hate you!”

A heated Russian exchange.

“If you don’t eat for the whole day then you can.”�

“Really?”

“Yeah, I saw it on You-Tube.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes you did.”

No, she’s lying.”

And the pigeons keep pecking and the waves keep rolling in.

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The planets have been positioning themselves in a new way, significantly, outrageously, powerfully for weeks, and at the moment Saturn and Neptune are dancing a vibrationally confusing tango. There is a radical reorientation to life that most are experiencing, and there is much resistance. The desires of the body, the brain, still drown the voice of the new person who is moving into responsibility for the whole. 

Time to make the unconscious conscious. We are innately a loving species but we have been busy in our insecurities.

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The longest day…light? Yes please. We humans do worship light, but we don’t seem to acknowledge universally the need to grow our personal light within…to do the real work, walk a walk of obstacle riddled reality…belief and imagination together…leading to true human connection and freedom and LIGHT…and…dum da dum dum… If you try to skip the darkness, you skip the gold…hah!…The Never Ending Story?

FALCOR!!! Is that YOU??? Yes! Come!

Fly me away into a world of goodness on this SOLSTICE DAY!!!!

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Family stories cite that upon my emergence into this world YOU were my north star…as in I did not want you out of sight…and so my personal challenge began in that very moment!

Good luck to anyone who ever thought they might know where you were/are and/or what you were up to… as in were you were forever knee deep in SOMETHING! 

In India lining up villagers for cataract surgeries.. Or turning over every rock to find a stud bull for another village… Or a heart valve… Or get funding for a medical university for women.

And then in this country, on a crusade to save The Hudson River Palisades from developers… Or founding the Citizens for Positive Planning in northern Michigan. 

I do not remember you ever resting…maybe moments…watching the sunset with a small glass of sherry..and looking at Mom with adoration, still after 67 years. 

When she left, you had to follow. 

A year after you left, a friend gave me the gift of a session with a woman (quite a hilarious meeting actually) whose gift was talking to those ‘on the other side’. With no coaching from me, she began right away with:

 “Your parents! Both passed. Wow! They are quite the mighty team! They’re VERY BUSY! Do they ever stop? They have something to do with a church. In a good way.”

Hahaha. I needed to hear nothing else. SO you’re still at it. I love you with my heart and soul forever, Dad.  Maybe one day I will join you at sunset time. I would love that.

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Yes. Five months since that bright morning when I walked out on my bluff, and was awestruck by the giant orangish clouds blowing up from Pacific Palisade. We had evacuated several weeks before for the Franklin Fire, which was much closer and so my neighbors and I decided that this one was too far away to worry about. 

This image makes my heart race and tears flood.

I visit my once upon a time ago home every week, which is now a sacred writing space for me. My front steps are the only ‘thing’ remaining of my nest and so there I sit…and my birds gather and chit chat. 

Last Saturday was sunny and vibrantly alive with a gusty wind and cloudless sky, The figs on my fig tree are strange this year, the lemons are small but trying, the apricot tree is more luxuriously full than ever, and the nectarine tree has dozens of wee hard as rock fruit. We each ride this traumatic event in our own unique way…and this evidence in nature teaches us.

My writing on this day was a long letter to my New York daughter. Time and distance has played with us oddly during these months, but who would we be without family to share spontaneous depths with. I wrote and wrote..in signing off, peace and love filled my heart…I dropped my paper and pen in my car and walked up to the higher bluff where I have daily spent hours of quiet and being with my two giant eucalyptus trees as soul companions, looking out over the ocean and up at the sky.

And Then.

Walking up my path, breathing in the sunny warmth and watching the new wild grasses blowing in the light, I looked up and the world fell away beneath my feet.

My most glorious eucalyptus, the queen of trees, my friend, whose bark changed color with minute shifts of light and whose leaves fluttered messages that needed no interpretation…..WAS GONE.

‘The straw that broke the camel’s back.’ happened.

I felt as if my elephant friend had been shot for its ivory.

She was chopped down because the new owner of this property is to build a five car garage where she stood.

And I have been quiet all week. This was a big one.

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May 23, 1918—Des Moines, Iowa

Mom! You arrived! And you chose a doozey of a family, yin and yang to the nth degree! Your mother, bless her in her Gilded Age aristocracy and the challenges that her positioning around status and ‘shoulds’ brought her moving forward, but HOW could she not adore you from the first moment? Your giant dark eyes and spontaneous wide smile? Ah..that’s right…you were born into a family of boys, and they were her heartthrob. What was she going to do with a girl? You lived your entire 89 years wanting your mother’s approval, You imagined that you giant brain and sparkling wit might win her ‘YES!’ but no.

And then there was Dad. Thank goodness. How he loved you. Sixty-seven years together, as a team, such a team that his heart broke when you died, so what could he do? He followed you! On THIS DAY, what would have been your 90th birthday!

SO. I can only imagine that the two of you are sipping your port wine and nibbling a spread of pickled herring on triscuits, and musing over the beauty and variety of your great grand offspring!

Happy Birthday, Mom!

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Oh Mom, on this Mothers Day, I do hope that your earthly sadness has been lifted and blown away and that you are enjoying this day with true joy and soul knowing.

You declared. as your stroke fall-out intensified and with its progression and physical disconnect, that the most treasured chapter of your life was your year in France (1938) at The Sorbonne. Your diary of that year burned in my fire, but having read it several times, your sharing on the page was written in the voice of your young self in flowery enchanting stylized description, devoid of depth. I wish that you could share the ‘why’ it was your most treasured chapter with me now.

My experience of you, having entered the picture when you were thirty-two, was one of you living your Gemini self. One of you was bursting with life and passion for knowledge and adventure and delving into all things historical and cultural and discussing these at length, and the other pure sorrow/upset/frustration.

Our years in India were triumphant for you, though they impacted your children, each uniquely, massively. You and Dad were a team in ‘his’ work, travelling to distressed villages and hospitals, brain-storming with political leaders on social unrest and problem solving, jumping from jeep to train to rickshaw, while we lived in boarding…in Kodai…tucked away and out of sight. You thrilled at being in the vortex of action with Dad, and you justified not being there for us because ‘all lthe missionaries did this’, but on the other side of it? Trouble.

When we returned to the US, and Dad, as over-seer of all of southern Asia for the UCC, his office was in NYC, car-pooling in every day, and you were suddenly left at home in Tenafly, with w-h-a-t? Children who were now teen-agers, that you barely knew, who were trying to adapt to this new country, and had no use for you. You were rejected by all, except for me.

I tired to mediate…to help you understand…amidst banging doors and your own emptiness and guilt. You clung to this guilt and sadness for the rest of your life., It became your identity…there were thrusts of ‘the old you’ in there…dinner table poetry recitations and passionate historical expositions, but you chose to be a victim to yourself.

I love you with my heart and soul, Mom…and as I told you over and over again, your timing on the planet, culturally, dictated much of what you bowed to…and you did your best with this. Your gifts were and are profound. Your literary self lives on in me and my daughters and now your great grand children. None of this was failure, We human beings bear the stamp of when we were born and with that unconscious conditioning that we can forgive in ourselves as we age.

May today be one of beauty and togetherness with Dad and the knowing that you planted one phenomenal garden down here! And now? A beautiful Mothers Day to you.

Mom, you are my star.

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This time on earth is a time of harvesting, if we move aside from our particular angsts and allow the wisdoms of our souls to see! 

It is a time to garner dignity, shoulders back and head up, look the beauty and might inside of you in the eye and shine.

Seriously.

Now go!

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A few days ago, after a strenuous day trying to track down a miracle potion from China that has been keeping my inner organs working for ages, but alas, has been cancelled due to pending tariffs…I stopped by the ocean to soothe my soul.

It was a chilly overcast day with few people out and about, but I walked down to the water and there, at the edge of the sea, two giant breath-takingly beautiful dolphins lying and dying. I sat with them and stroked them. A few fishermen drew close and sat with me.

When I walked back to the car, the inlet where my sea lions cavort and head out to sea and back again, which is ruled by them, was devoid of sea lions. Instead hundreds of dolphins slowly circling.. it was haunting….I shouted out to them…”Go back! Find deep clean water!”

In Sri Lanka when tsunamis are coming, the elephants behave strangely.

Are these dolphins warning us or grieving or confused in their upset?

The heart…feelings…this is where we unite and compassion comes alive…this is how we are drawn into another’s world and their spirit into ours…it is a secret bridge. Feelings.

What is happening to these magnificent creatures is happening to us and vice versa.

May we breathe life into our feelings and all heal.

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As decades roll along, and one’s peaks and valleys have had their way with us, there is a moment, a crossing of an invisible river, where suddenly one realizes that there is nothing left to feel. At first embodying the strangeness of this and then relaxing into the softness, the sweetness, the quiet calm, and recognizing,
‘Oh! This is peace. Thank you’.

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Yesterday sparkled with warm sunshine and geraniums popping in amidst mysterious giant succulent blooms that I cannot name, but today? Misty fog blanketing the canal over yonder and pigeons cooing, discussing life amongst shorebirds.

My mother is everywhere.

My mother was a scholar, and as such, anything and everything that crossed her path was investigated and committed to memory immediately. In the mix? FLOWERS…and whenever my eyes catch sight of a geranium, I hear my mother, “Geraniums don’t smell like much but they are hardy warriors that can grow just about anywhere. I feel as if they should have originated in China, as they resemble the blossoms in Chinese art, but they in fact came from South Africa! And did you know that you can grow an entire new plant many times over from a simple cutting?”….and BIRDS…whenever a pigeon was spied nearby, “Oh bother. Pigeons! I don’t like pigeons. They make a mess and are not very interesting. I can do without them.”

Mom. The yin and yang and here you are, making sure I feel your presence at this moment, however, Mom, I love pigeons. They putz around with each other and coo continually whilst putzing. Herein a massage: may we all cheerily carry on and chat about it while living life in our flock, whilst welcoming other flocks to participate however they choose.

The phrase ‘we must stand within our humanity’ found my ears two days ago, while contemplating joining the masses once again in a demonstration in downtown LA.

‘We must stand within our humanity’.

What does this mean? At this moment in time?

I believe it means that we each must find our own unique balance between our joys, our gifts, our values, our raison d’etre and go from there…to contribute towards this world’s growth. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow said, ’Kind hearts are the gardens, kind thoughts are the roots, kind words are the flowers, kind deeds are the fruits’. As a culture we seem to hold that kindness is not a vehicle for change. But then again, the contagious quiet that spiritual teachers create in silence is a miracle to behold.

Now?

To be a geranium in Long Beach, California.

To be a pigeon coo-ing and putzing while shore birds gracefully step among them, occasionally squeaking, but all respectfully going about their business separately together.

Where to begin?

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On Sunday, I extracted my ‘residents only’ green pass out of the glove compartment, positioned it in my lap and headed towards PCH.

No matter how many times I drive up this drive….in this altered universe of the present…this road that I travelled practically with my eyes closed, while also breathing in and cellularly knowing every twist and turn and nuance….the tears flowed again. All on their own. No thoughts. Simply feelings. Black skeletal structures, one after another, with blue skies and white clouds above and beyond.

The word is that among the home owners, after paying $20,000 for toxic waster removal, $30,000 for debris removal, more $$$’s septic tank surveying and removal, no insurance payments in the works, and no re-building to begin until summer 2026, there is massive abandonment of the premises…for now. People have found new places to live temporarily and my bluff has basically been deserted by its humans.

Years ago I had been told that our bluff had been an ancient Native American burial ground. I had also been told that spirits dwelled in my home with me, friendly spirits, and not to worry. I knew this. The bottom drawer of my great grandfather’s cherry chest, that sat in the corner of my nest, was the niche that came alive once I closed my curtain for the night. Much activity in that drawer. I peered patiently numerous times, I crept over numerous times, I shone light in a pounce again and again, nothing…except for the rearrangement of the linens that laid there…innocently newly rumpled. And so I added the spirits to my list of ‘good night’ wishes.

On Sunday, Palm Sunday, I arrived and parked in my driveway all alone in the surreal quiet. My two hawks flew over and circled me immediately and more tears flowed. This is sacred ground. A 180 degree view of the coast…looking down on the Pacific Ocean….my paradise, which still exists, simply is a new incarnation, as we all are.

I sat on the steps of my home. Everything else has been cleared. I listened to the wind in the trees and birdcalls as they gathered in my fig tree. This is still my home. Sundays, for these next months, before building resumes next year, will be my time out to be quiet.

Gifts come in untold packages, but sometimes we need to slow down and invite them in.

With this, I wonder, where are my spirits are sleeping now.

I look forward to hearing from them.

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My indoctrination into the church at an early age was beautiful. Before we went to India, my father was the minister of the First Congregational Church, in Concord, New Hampshire. As I have never been one to be trapped, I would regularly escape from the church nursery and stream up the church aisle screaming ‘Daddy!” and sit perched in the pulpit with him while he preached.

My first Palm Sunday memory was wondrous….palm leaves being ushered in though massive carved doors, while filtered light from stained glass window reflected all ‘round…and then the leaves blanketed the church aisles while children gathered them and waved them happily. And my father’s sparkling warm laughing eyes.

Decades ago, in Charleston, South Carolina, as a single mother to two daughters, theater became our grounding connective home. There was not one moment during those years that one of us was not involved in a production, on and off stage, and more often than not, all three of us at once. What a gift…..what a launchpad in a multitude of ways…and friendships that remain solid and heartfelt forever.

Somehwhere in the mix “Jesus Christ Superstar” happened. I cannot remember which one of us was actually on stage, but I do know that we were involved in every single rehearsal…hence the music is in my bones.

Hosanna

Hey Sanna Sanna Sanna Hosanna

Hey Sanna Hosanna

Hey JC, JC won’t you smile at me?

Sanna Hosanna

Hey Superstar.

“Won’t you smile at me?”

And now, here on our planet, which is moment by moment unrecognizable in ways, Holy Week…and Passover…..and the promise of spring….we must each hold on tight to every shred of wonder and beauty and hope that we can…it is alive..and will deliver…Believe.

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Long Beach—Saturday Morning

As a tiny girl in India, my sister and I were perpetually buried by garlands of flowers. My father’s work was life saving, literally, hence his appearance on the scene of schools, hospitals, and villages generated exhilarated gestures of gratitude…and there we were, partaking of this honoring as well.

The garlands were predominantly jasmine, marigolds and roses, all threaded together and ceremoniously coronating us with such profusion that we could barely see out…and with every breath, the waft of their essence.

Here, now, 70-ish years later, somehow, mysteriously, I am told that I smell like a flower garden, and when I leave a space, it lingers. I chuckle at one more unexplained phenomena and pass it off as the flowery wafts of my childhood became me.

On a more serious note, this delightful happening is a warning to the reality and might of that which we breathe and the world that we live in.

A few days ago, news of the toxic waste from our fire, though supposedly being dealt with, flowed down our bluffs into the ocean and is now poisoning the fish and other marine life. Sea lions and shore birds are washing up on the shores of Malibu, dead, from eating the fish. The wafts in the air, and in the earth and water, as our world experiences massive global change, are real. These wafts become us, and we have yet to discover what this means.

We must not only take note, but step back from our habitual immersive concerns and extend ourselves, as in down on our knees in the mud, and become caretakers and gardeners of our earth.

“Then I step out into the garden, Where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man, is tending his children, the roses”.

And roses we will become. As will our grand children.

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Morning musings.

This past weekend…a fire fundraiser on Saturday morning….Hands Off in downtown LA on Saturday afternoon…a Malibu gathering on Sunday, more fire fire fire discussion….and now Monday Monday, am I still here?

A constant in all of this is being approached/asked::

“You seem so together and great…how?”

“You always look as if you are at peace”

“How can you be smiling? You are always smiling!”

How can one respond?

I feel that when one has lived multiple decades, one has experienced a multitude of disappointments/sorrows/ upsets/ loss and what one learns with each one is to look at the choices of how to ride….meaning yay or nay.

If one allows oneself to feel the blow entirely, not ignore or fight the feelings, but be gentle with them and accept them as a new part of the self going forward, then one has room for joy to be front and center once again.

If one chooses to fight the fight of woe and angst, the long haul is a long haul…and only spirals downward.

By seven and a half decades on the planet, who has not lost loved ones, experienced heartbreaks, the loss of well functioning body parts, financial ups and downs, unrealized dreams and on and on. This is life on earth. Every single moment we have a choice in how to ride. If one chooses life…joy…humor…friendship….beauty…love…THEN we become all the more appreciative of each moment and solid because of the shatterings along the way…THEN we can feel and exude peace and joy and passion for being here.. Simply a choice.

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Where did theses words filter in from?

A gentle reminder in the midst of chaos:

A courageous heart will go forth and engage with life despite confusion and fear.

A fearful heart will be hesitant and will tend to hold back.

A heavy heart will make for a gloomy unlived life.

And….

A compassionate heart need never carry the burden of judgement.

A forgiving heart knows the art of liberation.

A loving heart awakens the spirit to possibility and engagement with others.

The post Hearts appeared first on Francie's Channeled Chimes.

Yesterday morning I once again filled out paper work for an appeal to FEMA as they have not yet come through for me. Supposedly my documents are in order but with the threat of its cancellation I rolled up my sleeves to nudge again.

Then, I perused Facebook and landed right away on a favorite ‘friend’ (that of course I have never met) and there was yet another one of his photos of his dogs cavorting in Malibu surf.

Malibu.

This word, this place, holds a variety of connotations for all, but for me it means Home.

And so I grabbed my car keys and headed up. I had not been back to my bluff for weeks. I’ve felt a centering taking place, being here, in these new surroundings, even with the ever present soul knowing that this transition is raw and temporary.

I drove over to PCH and hadn’t realized there would still be a check on passes.. residents only….no problem, I had mine. I drove up….worker ants in giant trucks everywhere…clearing, clearing and beyond it all, THERE is my ocean. The ocean in Malibu is different than the ocean elswhere. It just is.

Duke’s Restaurant…Las Flores…in my turn-off. There was Duke’s…closed forever now…the parking lot empty..and as I turned up Las Flores my heart and soul exploded into tears and I kept saying out loud ‘Home, home, home.” My road is the first road…a private road…on the right. The bottom houses in tact, and so again through my tears, it all looked ‘fine.’. I knew what was coming as I had been here weeks ago, but now trucks, chain saw screeching and buzzing, workers everywhere…and then I drove up and around and up and Home.

The debris had been cleared…meaning the innards of my house and everything but the concrete foundation walls, and my front steps, gone. But peace. It was quiet. Hawks flying. Stillness and beauty all around and the ocean right over there, sparkling… and the sound of waves.

Every morning for those years. after greeting my birds, I would get up, walk to the front door and greet the fig tree. Yesterday I buried myself in her and cried. Then I sat on my front steps and just looked at her and thanked her.

I will come back again and again. This is sacred ground for me. It is Home.

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My favorite writing spot in Long Beach is in front of a stretch of grass with willow trees and quiet picnic-ers, on the banks of a waterway that also holds the SS Queen Mary. Every time I round the bend in the road that leads to finding a parking space, I look up at that glorious ship and smile.

Flashback:

In 1957, my family sailed out of the New York harbor on the SS Mauretania, bound for England..and then on to INDIA!!!! This particular voyage across the Atlantic was 7 days. 3 days in, right in the middle of a shuffleboard game on deck, where I was delightedly beating my older brother, the captain’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker saying “All eyes starboard, the SS Queen Mary!” We rushed to the rail, with my mother shouting “Keep your feet on the deck!”, and the two ships blasted their toots back and forth.

And now…68 years later…thar she blows. Right there. She is grounded and I am…free falling.

We have each seen worlds, experienced indescribable adventures and shenanigans, and here we are! Kindred spirits. 

A subplot to this:

I discovered this particular alcove in Long Beach while I was exporing and had gotten lost, but in addition to the Queen Mary, there was a warm humming welcoming vibe due to a lively, congregation of African Americans cooking, playing music, lounging about and vivaciously interacting with each other. And then, every single time that I pulled up, there they were..

Two days ago, after a meander to take a few pictures of the ship, I was hailed. 

“Hello! I see you’re enjoying this beautiful day!”

“I am, thank you, and I see you are as well!”

“We have noticed you, are you visiting?”

And so we chatted. 

And I have been welcomed into their assemby. They said that they’ve never met anyone like me and “Please come and tell us stories or just come, pull up a chair and BE.”

My first new friends in Long Beach and the Queen Mary…all in one spot.

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Rhythms….in the soul music accompanying the picnic over yonder….in the trees, as the wind expands and sighs…..in the wing flaps of cruising gulls….EVERYTHING in motion to a beat…throbbing life ….and a magnificently ‘on a mission’ eclipse is a comin’! 

When one’s own heart rhythm becomes chaotic, due to ignored stresses, there is a soul collapse…and the brain follows, rabbit holing into weariness and sadness and darkness and  simple emptiness. This is where the train begins to run fullspeed ahead into depression.  

Stop! 

Turn yourself around and open the windows to your senses.

I’m serious.

Watch the wind in the trees.

Brew some coffee and breathe in the aroma while it drips.

Find a flower to sit with, look deep into its petals, speak to it and give HER/HIM a name.

Why?

Because the collective consciousness associated with this ‘re-setting’ ecplise requires positivity.

Change is coming and like it or not, you are participating…your vibe, your gusto, your faith.

Let’s give birth to a new north star.

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Corniche. This morning, this word greeted me and the very sound of it felt friendly. It means ‘a road cut into the edge of a cliff, especially one running along a coast’, well if that is not the bees knees. Is it a sign? One can hope.

Yes, I am settled in my Long Beach abode, for sleep and early morning rituals, BUT/AND, almost ten weeks now since the fire and ‘on reviewing the situation’ (thank you, ‘Oliver!’), I have found that rhythm is essential to one’s well-being…hence my personal practice of leaving Malibu mid morning, driving down PCH to Santa Monica and Marina Del Rey for meetings and writing and sea lions, and then returning to my Shangri-la filled with golden light filtering and dappling figs and lemons and lazy lizards, careening hawks, and singing birds.

And so, from here i n Long Beach, I do this. I’ve added 20 miles onto the trek, I don’t care. I find peace in familiarity of the community that has remained..Trader Joe’s, Thyme Cafe and my pelicans, tiny sea birds and sea lions. Then…yes, two hours at least for the drive ‘home’, but  the heart, the heart needs what the heart needs and I am grateful.

Having said this…CORNICHE…even though it sounds a bit like a crusty topped muffin to me…it is now a north star. A road cut into the edge of a cliff, running along the coast…my cliff? a new cliff?  I’m open. I’m ready when it calls and meanwhile this word feels warm and sweet.

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Yesterday afternoon, after navigating traffic snaffus on the 405 and attempting to find parking in Beverly Hills for a medical appointment, one of the WAYMO cars, (that to me look like helmits out of Star Wars), and I had a confrontational meeting of the NON minds.

It was in my way and like a stubborn bull, would not move. I muttered “Just go home”, and then thought, “Oh, wait a minute, WHERE do they go at night? Or do they just keep driving endlessly?”

Investigation on my part:

There are designated parking lots for these white whales, HOWEVER apparently they have problems settling down and they endlessly honk at each other while trying to find their landing spot.  Acting out renegades after a day of supposedly followiing the rules.

Hilarious. 

Unless one lives in close proximity to said parking lots.

Yet another unfinished ‘genius’ idea.

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In the years that I taught wee ones, mid morning outside play was fluff time. Spring flowers seduced bees to come thither, hence bee speeches were necessary on a daily basis.

“If a bee comes to you, stand quietly and let him or her BE. When the bee discovers that your sweetness is just YOU and not a flower, he or she will fly away and find a real flower. You mustn’t whisk him or flap about or run. This is important.”

The children obeyed and nary a mishap in all my years.

On the other hand…the rule was different for teachers…as was noted by the children…(SORRY!)…this one, meaning myself, could not hold still if a bee found me, in fact lightening reflex into scrambling to safety.

Little did I know that elephants and I have this in common.

I am exonerated.

Elephants are so terrified of bees that they will flap their ears, stir up dust, make a noise and turn and flee. They associate the sound and smell of bees with PAIN, and hysterics overcome them when they hear or smell them!

Maybe I was an elephant in a past life.

In any case now, this very trait has saved their lives. Another example of prism facets.

There are farming communities in Africa that are in grave danger of mass starvation because elephants sneak in at night and devour the produce. Outrage then propels serious action on the part of the humans, resulting in permanently removing the elephants…meaning killing them. BUT the infiltration of this information on the frenzied senstivity to bees has inspired the African villagers to build BEEHIVE FENCES which deter the elephants from midnight feasting, THUS saving their lives.

The hives of bees are strung up between posts and linked together by rope and wires. When the fence is disturbed by an elephant, the hives sway, the bees get irritated and flee the hive in a buzzing panic and the elephants run!

I would be with them.

I do forever apologize in my heart to the children, that I was not a perfect example to them.

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In 1969 I quit college…actually took a leave of absence but never returned…to work in a state institution.

College made no sense to me, as my world was in chaos..Viet Nam, drugs, sex, women’s lib….my friends were leaping off into all directions and I didn’t know what to do, BUT I knew that I did not want to commit to college before I knew what I was aiming for.

I rented a cottage in the White Mountains of New Hampshire and got a job at a state institution. This was an important chapter for me as well as for the 40 abused, hence abusive and dangerous women I was in charge of. Just as Willowbrook was spotlit during this time, so was Laconia, where I was. I made a difference to these women and the system, but ended up in a hospital for a year afterwards.

THEN, I moved to Lexington, Massachusetts, as I had met a doctor (Davidoff..as in ’Death Be Not Proud’, Davidoff) in the Beth Israel Hospital in Boston, whose wife was the principal of a private preschool for exceptional children. I was offered the job of head teacher for four-year-olds. These children were the most brilliant, geniusly creative, articulate little people one can imagine AND many of them living in homes with their grandparents who had perviously been imprisoned in concentration camps. The households held extreme emotions and the children were affected. This school was a healing place, a time out and safe place, where the children could blossom. Among my children, was Noam and Carol Chomsky’s son. He and I grew a special relationship, and I became a regular visitor in their home.

Looking back on this time….these people….sitting at the dinner table and participating in extraordinary conversations about life and values and the world….and I recently read that Noam had lost his ability to speak.

Silence.

What is there to say?

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There are black and white tiles on the floor of my Long Beach shower.

My grandparents lived in a ‘gilded age’mansion which they built in the early 1900’s. It had a dark mahogany elegantly carved curved starcase, with a secret cubbyhole underneath, and gates at both top and bottom. It stood in the middle of room upon room of green velvet Victorian furniture, marble top tables, glass curtains and a mysterious austerity that smelled of my Grandpa’s pipe and minty licorice. The kitchen was gigantic, and always hot with the smell of meats and breads and homey concoctions stewing, and off the back of IT was the pantry. The forbidden pantry, with jars of heaven only knows what that we were not supposed to investigate but nevermind, it called and we obeyed, hence many a giggly rendez-vous on the floor nibbling and sniffing.

Upstairs? A library, a sunroom and five or six bedrooms, all light and bright, to balance the dark formality of downstairs, plus a hidden back stairway that could go down or UP into the forbidden attic that simply needed to be explored. In all of this, aside from my grandparents’ ‘suite’ there was only one bathroom…and THIS bathroom had a beautiful clawfoot tub with fancy gold faucets and it sat on a black and white tile floor.

So now…in this aftermath of moving and regurgitating feelings and life chapters…my Long Beach tiles wink at me every time I stand in the shower with water cleansing, soothing and reminding me of goodness. And then, out of nowhere thoughts of my grandmother. I did not know her well. Grandma died when I was 6, and so my memories of her are snippets mixed in with tales that I have heard.

As I am now of a certain age and family genetics are queried by the medical world, I am faced with “I have no idea about this Grandma.”

She was Scottish, she had long red hair, she raced horses in a cart and was famous for this, she had 10 children, she could squirt my grandfather in the ear when her spoon dug into a grapefruit every morning, she was smart, she was funny, she was a force, and she was big.

What else? And how old was she when she died and what of?

I called my older brother in Germany to find out.

“I don’t know, France, you have the green book of the family history…we all got a copy…oh that’s right, yours burned…I will check.”

The answer?

All of the men in the family are documented. The women are not. There was no birthdate, death date, and ZERO information on my grandmother.

HUH.

Guess she didn’t exist in the creator of ‘the book’s’ mind?

Now these tiles represent something else.

WHO WERE YOU, GRANDMA???????

I’m going to find out.

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Every single morning during my teenage years, the household was WOKEN by my mother’s piano playing, which always began with the hymn, ’Morning Has Broken.’ 

My mother was a scholar, and if one commented on the lovliness of this, in return she would passionately remind us of its French and Scottish origin, which was tedious to her young-uns. Now I am grateful.. and the words and tune ring through me frequently…there are no mysteries..not really.

And you are invited to conjure ‘Cat Stevens’ for the melody.

Morning has broken like the first morning

Blackbird has spoken like the first bird

Praise for the singing, praise for the morning

Praise for them springing fresh from the world

Sweet the rains new fall, sunlit from Heaven

Like the first dewfall on the first grass

Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden

Sprung in completeness where His feet pass

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning

Born of the one light, Eden saw play

Praise with elation, praise every morning

God’s recreation of the new day

Morning has broken like the first morning

Blackbird has spoken like the first bird

Praise for the singing, praise for the morning

Praise for them springing fresh from the world

Spring is coming.

And even with the darkness in the world, there is beauty and light.

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THIS recently appeared in my ….do we call it ‘feed’? 

Earth based souls are designed to incarnate and evolve in body on earth usually hundreds or thousands of times on earth…growing and evolving, tripping and falling…there is a soul nursery…earth based souls are prepared to come to earth before they come.

Interplanetary souls, or et souls, evolve somewhere other than earth and the only reason they come here is because they come from an evolved perspective and they come to help.

Angelic souls come from angelic realm…that realm of  souls support the divine…they carry the energy of the high frequency we think of as source…love and conpassion energy…their signature reason for coming to earth is to aid acceptance,, greater peace love compassion perspective.

This all sounds positive….but ALAS  there are clearly numerous black sheep that have infiltrated this system and they need to be sent back from whence they came. Now.

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At that time, the question “What are you going to do? Are you going to stay? Do you have a place? What about your family? HOW are you okay”

THEN

Question: What are you going to do? Answer: I have no idea. I have my car, and that’s basically all I have in the material world. I will figure out the rest.

2. Question: Are you going to stay in LA? Answer: I’m not sure. Friends from all corners of the world have said ‘COME, I have a bed, a room, a place for you, you are welcome.” These heartfelt words were a life raft, and grounded me, but at that time I felt that staytng was what I was to do.

3. Question: Do you have a place? Answer: An unsolicited phone call from a soul sister friend, and YES. For a few weeks. A cabin to sequester in, calm down in, and grow an eagle perspective on ‘things’.

4. Question: What about your family? Answer: My daughtrers have their own lives, brim full of responsibilites and hooplah, and my instincts were to let them be.

5. Question: HOW are you okay? Answer: This is the most important question of all. My inner world. My inner world is in tact. It has been affected by this tumult, but has been actively consciouslly my best friend forever. My only REAL job now is to not be derailed from watering it, sitting with it, letting it guide me while the earthly chaos is front and center.

NOW

I came to LA on the heels of 9/11. Affer being on the NYC grief team and working with numerous women for a year…and being commanded by them to ‘GO to LA, write your stories for the big screen and touch others as you have touched us’, I heard this as a sign.

During my first week in the Santa Monica dog park with my golden angel, Oberon, I met an A-list screenwiter, who told me “Forget it. Spec scripts? Not a chance. You might as well turn around…and remember, it isn’t the ‘great’ scripts that make it, it’s the ones where the writer never gives up.”

I heard him, took no postion, and continued to listen to myself.

I do not pitch, or try to sell myself or my stories or my scripts or my documents…I manifest meetings and then sit and listen to see if there is a fit for collaboration/creativity/connection/FRIENDSHIP. I had an agent…and then he died. I met high and mightys in the business and grew relationships. Along the way, cheering squads have surrounded me. “I know you’re going to make it! Stay in there! I’m rooting for you!” My voiced answer has been ‘Thank you.” My silent answer is “I already AM making it…full on…my life could not be more fascinatingly alive and I LOVE it.”

As for my stories? A barnfull lined up and ready and more birthing every minute….will the ‘public’ know them? See them? Experience them in a way that I imagine? Who knows.

THE FIRE was another reminder of this. None of us know one thing about anything, really. Our job is to be the best that we can be in every moment, whatever that means individually…and find strength and beauty wherever we can. Perhaps in the company of a love, perhaps visiting sea lions, perhaps dancing in a sunset, perhaps sitting with an ice cream cone.

Yesterday out of the blue….my car died. Completely. Completely. Fema has not come through, and my dollars were all in my home. BUT/AND miracles happen everywhere if we allow them. Always.

Invite yours in and go find a meadow….or a beach…..or or or…..

All reactions:

14Wendy Anderson, Nicoletta Agnelli and 12 others

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Eight and a half weeks since The Fire.

Shock, disorientation, immediate moment by moment survival…this has setlled…and now?

The longer term reality. Creating surroundings that bring solace and healing and joy. Figuring out how to manifest food, meds, gas, shelter moving forward…(yes, my dollars were all in the house).

Fema is back logged with other disasters and the word is “it will be months before we can help you”. We humans are masterful at doing whatever is needed for our loved ones, but what about for ourselves? Now the test is upon us.

During my years of living in Malibu, my personal reality was not the glamourous ‘WHOA, MALIBU!!!!’ reality…it was a surreal, exquisite gift from God as a Shangri-La offering to heal and bask in after a tumultuous chapter. I lived privately and simply and welcomed every morning chatting with the creatures that claimed the bluff with me…greeting my fig and lemon trees and seeing how they were doing…and every single mid morning…as I headed out in my car to write by the sea lions and meet industry people for my scripts, there was a certain bend in the road where the light ALWAYS shone golden. Every single day, at that particular moment, the words ‘the unbearable lightness of being’ would waft through me, followed by a silent prayer of thanks and I felt that I was in heaven while on earth…the fragile reality of it all…the sorrows that rode right along next to ecstacy.

Yesterday…out of nowhere….walking out on a pier in Seal Beach, before I headed north to Santa Monica, it happened. In the rain, in the wind, waves breaking when suddenly a stream of light breaking forth and turning the waves silver, it happened, those words came through me, ’the unbearable lightness of being.’

Thank you…Thank you…Yes.

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An astrological ‘thing’ describing the inner and outer affects of the extraordinary planetary alignment that is approaching and where the world stands with this, crossed my path this morning and I succombed.

Then an NPR interview with Oleksandra Malviichuk on her view of Ukraine, Russia and the US. 

THIS. This is the reality…the horrors that the entire population of Ukraine is living…the agonies…the children. Oleksandra, Nobel Peace prize winner/human rights defender articulated specifics of the  present and yet fiercely proclaimed that Ukraine would not only survive, but rise up in goodness and integrity as a symbol of light/strength/togetherness.

Then a whatsapp text from an close friend, as in adopted brother, who has worked for years through Doctors Without Borders as a negotiator and instrumentalist in creating hospitals in warzones, most recently for 18 months in Gaza….where they treated ALL people, as in BOTH SIDES of the conflict with practically no funds or beds and half of which were children with blasted apart bodies.

THIS is our world. THIS is why, though we are brought to our knees in various ways ‘over here’…fires, hurricanes, shootings…we have not experienced war on our turf…the mass suffering of loss of loves and limbs.

A few months ago my thirteen year old grand daughter sat with me quietly and said, “Mamgee, I feel guilty. I know you don’t have much money and we have lots. I can buy anything I want any time, no problem and you can’t. I feel guilty and don’t know what to do.”

The soul smiles.

I said, “My darling. My path is different than yours. We are each exactly where we are supposed to be. We make choices. What you see as me ‘being without’ is me making choices according to my nature. Feeling guilty is a waste. Feeling feelings about others and acknowledging who we are in relation to ‘them’ is key. 

It’s about asking oneself: What gifts do I have that will help the world…even in a tiny way…be brighter? Be better? 

You are young and where you live, how you live is bursting with opportunities to make your world bigger and help you figure out who you want to be in all of it…for when you are older. Have FUN in it and keep your awareness and sensitivity alive while you’re doing it. YOU have made my world bigger and brighter in this very conversation, and there is nothing more important than that…being there for each other honestly and coming from a place of caring. 

And may we all keep our eyes on those planets! 

They are up to something!

Long live Ukraine.

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A bit of levity.

Yes. I am blessed. Yes. I have landed in a spot near the ocean and am navigating my new surroundings with optimism.

HOWEVER…

This does not eradicate the fact that this is NOT my familiar digs and my rituals are adrift. The ‘familiar’ is paramount to my internal balance and I will create anew HOWEVER..…

Where are all the creatures?

Every Malibu morning began with greeting my birds, discussing the light and wind wafts with them and then checking in on my lizards, Hose and Matilda, who dreamily sunned themselves on my doorstep. As the day moved forward, my ‘office’ was down by the sea lions, pelicans and wee shore birds that fed my heart and soul and inspired my vibe to keep vibrating.

Long Beach has water and manmade islands (a bit weird but oh well) and flocks and flocks of seagulls and screaming crows (which I admire and welcome in moderation).

BUT/AND A QUEST IS IN ORDER!

I interrogated officials as to ‘Where might there be sea lions around here?”

“I’m sorry m’am”.

“I don’t see any at the marinas…why? They love fishy boat scraps…?”

“I couldn’t tell you, m’am…no sea lions around here.”

I looked at a map.

SEAL BEACH!!! Just south of here…this sounds promising. I googled and found a seal refuge center…noted the address and headed out.

WHAT? A huge military base…I had no idea…what planet is this? I continued anyway and entered a military gate…complete with uniformed people, parked and went into the office.

“I am here to see visit your seals.”

“I’m sorry m’am, every visitor needs a miliarty escort and needs to be scheduled and is only available once a month and there is a waiting list.”

“Really? To visit your seals?”

“Yes m’am.”

“Do you happen to know of any seals in the area that are not under your command?”

He didn’t chuckle.

“No m’am.”

“Alright, thank you, I will find some!”

I drove down to the center opf Seal Beach and happened on a police station.

Without relaying the details of the conversation, I have been made a Junior Police person, I have some new friends in lofty places…and I have all kinds of hints as to where to look.

You all know what I will be up to today!

Good luck to me!

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Concord, New Hampshire

Mid 50’s

Before India, my father was the minister of the First Congregational Church in Concord, New Hampshire. Our family’s life was intrinsically intertwined with the church’s life and it was fun. I never felt the ‘shoulds and thou shalt nots’ that others have felt in their early church experiences…ours was about community and festive enterprises. My dad was the beautiful warm anchor that spoke to the congregation with intelligence, humor, humanity and depth, and I was so proud standing beside him after each service, when he greeted ‘the people’ and shook their hands.

Today, the word ‘Christian’ has become something very other than this.

SAINT FRANCIS

During the New Hampshire years every night after the hooplah and laughter at the dinner table, the six of us would sit in a circle on the living room floor, our black labrador, TEDDY, in the mix, for family worship. Family worship was story telling, with Saint Francis in the mix, his blessing which my father spoke regularly as the benediction at the end of his church services, closing our evening ritual.

The family worship stories were connected to faith…to all faiths…stories from Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, ancient cultures, greek mythology, and bygone Christian days wherein dwelt saints and mystics, and our own family stories.

Saint Francis, was the mystic, poet, itinerant preacher, who had grown up in wealth but discarded it on the day that he crossed paths with a man who had leprosy, and went forward in poverty and service, doing whatever he could to alleviate the suffering of the poor. He passiionately loved all creatures and preached to the birds…in fact he became the patron saint of the environment and animals.

Maybe because my mother loved him so…maybe because Saint Francis and I have shared themes in our lives…from bird love to leprosy patient imprinting to actively cariing for others’ suffering…and not to mention our name…He became special to me from childhood.

My mother’s grandfather had travelled the world and had brought back a carved wooden statue of Saint Francis from Assisi, as a gift to my mother when she was 10. Wherever we moved, she wrapped him up and he moved with us. When my mother was dying she gifted me with him, and he has sat on top of the cherry chest that another great grandfather (who was Thomas Edison’s carpenter) had created. He stood there quietly blessing my Malibu nest.

When the Franklin Fire was happening and we were evacuted…three weeks before the Palisade Fire…I loaded my car with everything that I could think of in the treasure department. Saint Francis had been carefully tucked and wrapped. This fire came close but did not take us and so when the coast was clear, I emptied the car, heaved a sigh of relief and put my home back in order.

When the evacuation word came for The Palisade Fire, we had no time…and I did not gather one thing.

You know what happened.

BUT…miracles, miracles…weeks after the devastation, while living in my sheltered cottage, I unfolded some blankets and jackets that I have always kept in the car and THERE…THERE….Saint Francis…..THE STATUE….he must not have made it back into the house after the Franklin Fire….I cannot believe that I had not noticed this at the time but THANK GOODNESS…

And so now…his prayer:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace: where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.

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It has almost been 7 weeks since the fire. For the world ‘out there’ it is a time of no time. Life has moved forward. This crisis touched hearts and profound actions of generosity and support came forth from behind bushes and from across the sea into mailboxes….. life rafts of love from friends and strangers.

BUT NOW, as explosive world concerns are front and center for the masses, those of us in the path of the fire are experiencing a new level of deepening sorrow and loss of HOME,

Yesterday, after an appointment in Santa Monica, …I detoured over to my marina before heading down to Long Beach. I sat where I have sat for years, as THIS was my office…with pelicans and shore birds puttering and winging about and sea lions woofing and splashing….this was my place.

Long Beach is Long Beach…different…lovely…and very different.

I sat quietly, feelings that I thought I had ‘dealt with’ bubbling and streaming out all over my face. I opened my car door and slowly stood…breathed in my specifically salty air, felt the comfort of MY WIND and THE QUIET…and I walked.

Then I cried my lungs out. WHERE did that come from? I thought I had faced and finished this.

THE GIFT:

This time of interim….there is a withholding. Where we were before is gone and where we are going is mystery. This is always so, but vibrationally this ‘post trauma time’ is loaded.

The old has not died away…the new new is not ready to be born….the eyes are blurry.

FAITH is necessary.

There will be sunrise….and meanwhile, even while those feelings that are lurking in safe crevices pop up and squeal “I WANT TO GO HOME!!!” we must try to be enamoured with our very own light, stand in its strength and know that all is well.

The post The Interim appeared first on Francie's Channeled Chimes.

Tenderness.

Tenderness lives in our hearts and souls, BUT during times of trauma it gets tossed about and often hides out of sight.

Our bodies throb with over active adrenaline and our cells forget to calm down and our minds decide NOT time out, no matter what.

THIS is crisis….and trauma….and becomes one with us if we do not work with it.

Become a mother to oneself, as one would be to a wounded child.

We must wrap our arms around ourselves.

‘Shhhhh my darling, I will take care of you. You will be alright. I promise.”

How?

What brings you sweet pleasure?

Gazing at a beautiful flower? The smell of toast? The tinkle of chimes? The heaven of a bubbly warm bath?

When the catalyzing catastrophic event is no longer front and center, and a feeling of relief first seeps in, it is not ‘over’. Now the work BEGINS.

Our hearts can sing and cry at the same time.

Calling on Tenderness is key.

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Long Beach? Yes. A week ago today was my last day in my Mount Washington retreat apres the fire. My friend, my knightess with shining locks and brightness all ‘round…and her generous adventurous husband had bought a gorgeous home in Long Beach and we knew that the timing of the fire and my sheltering with them had a time limit because of their pending move…

But/And

The new magnificent home in waiting…THREE blocks from the ocean…comes with several rental units in the rear garden…and one…the tiniest…happened to be availalble at the very moment that moving day arrived.

But now it isn’t because it is mine.

I have been nesting for almost a week and passionately immersed in creating my own beauty within its walls while acclimating to and navigating Long Beach. My preconception of this city being purely industrial and port-ish have flown the coop….it is alive and fun and beautiful and full of surprises!

There DOES seem to be a shortage of sea lions, which surprises me. I believe that I will self appoint and be the ambassador to remedy this. With the massive number of boats in the various marinas, sea lions would have a hay day begging for scraps…the water piglets….I must relay this to them on my next Marina Del Rey sojourn.

Meanwhile, Life. A new chapter. For each and every one of us every day.

The feeling today is one of pulsing possibilities. Join me.

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My sparkling pink and turquoise fingernails are the gift of Goddess Indra. otheriwise known to me as Raindrop Rosebud. 

This girl. 

Ater snuggling up into me and reading ‘ Knight Owl’ complete with owl and dragon sound effects, (she had memorized every word and turned the pages perfectly as if reading), she took me by the hand and said “Now we are going to color together. I will do the hummingbirds and you will do the flowers. Does that sound good?”  

It did.

After completing two magnificent co-creations….and myself in awe of her color discernment “This green is a bit too yellow, and this one is a bit too blue, I’m not seeing the one that is the right one.” No whining or fussing, simply matter of fact sifting throuigh the color box until she silently found THE ONE.

THEN, she picked up all of the pencils, put the coloring book away and looked thoughtfully at my hands.  “Mamgee, you need nail polish, would you like that? I’m v-e-r-y good at this”.

Oh my Gosh..

Nail polish? Me? Whatever you say.

“First we spread a towel, a big towel. I’m very good at this but sometimes drips drip. It’s okay if it drips on the towel. Now, I think you need mermaid colors. What do you think?”

“Yes, it feels like a mermaid day to me.”

The bubbling chatter, the effervescent attention, the drips, the satisfied “It’s not perfect, but how do you like them?” 

“I love them. I will love them forever, even when they’re not there any more.”

“That doesn’t make sense”

It does to me. 

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As the world throbs with upset during this time, human beings’ innate natural spirit of caring, connection, generosity and standing together has been front and center in my lap and in my mailbox, in the most creative, delightful, BEAUTIFUL ways.

And now, one tale…and an enchanting herd of tails.

Lisa’s Elephants

In previous posts, there was mentioning of my elephant and turtle collections that had burned in the fire, and the subsequent action on the part of friends to remedy the loss.

These posts travelled far and wide and one came to the attention of a woman named Lisa.

Last week I visited my Santa Monica mailbox and found a small package waiting for me with a St. Paul, Minnesota address.

Hmmm, who do I know in St. Paul?

Anyone?

I carried it back to my car, peeled off the outer wrapping, opened the box and underneath a classic Indian green and gold notecard, there were half a dozen ‘somethings’ neatly tucked in together and bubble wrapped.

I opened the card and read.

Lisa introduced herself as a friend of a friend on Facebook. We three had all attended the same school in India, though Lisa was 12 years younger than I and therefore we had never crossed paths. She shared that her father’s life work had been in India, as mine had, and that he had collected elephants. Her parents had both passed years ago and she and her siblings together decided that these elephants, lying in the box in my lap, should now find a new home and history with me.

Deep breath.

Tears streaming.

Need I say more?

I did not unwrap the bundles. I put them down and flashed on how one of my grandsons had had a particular connection to my elephants, he had asked specifically if they were ‘gone’.

I was planning on driving down to visit the family for a few hours…my first since the fire….on Sunday.

The box rode in the front seat of the car with me, and when I arrived, after hugging and hoopdidooing, I stole Moses away and together we sat in the car and I shared the Lisa story.

One by one, with gentle enthusiasm, Moses unwrapped each one.

“Wow, Mamgee, the wooden ones look just like yours! But the sparkly mirror one is different! Magical! And the red one!” And then, with the last one, out tumbled a mama and several little ones, “A FAMILY!”.

Yes. A family. This wee herd will live with me until I am not longer, and then with Moses.

And Lisa is our elephant angel.

Thank you, Lisa, Thank you, Life.

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Five weeks ago this morning I woke up in my Malibu bed, greeting the birds, the trees and the day and having no idea this would be the last in the intimate precious world of my sacred space.

This morning I woke to the birds, the trees and the day in my sheltered spot which has become my retreat,  where my feathers have been soothed and my soul quieted. This is my last morning here.

Another transition is at hand. Long Beach. 

Long Beach?

Yes.

What is Long Beach?

No idea, but it is my next harbor. Literally.

I will be moving into a tiny apartment, nestled in a garden, in a neighborhood that is new to me and/but I will be THREE blocks from the ocean, my beloved ocean which I looked out on every morning from my bluff with a heartful of gratitude and now I will practically be IN IT.

These weeks have been intense, to put it mildly. Hours and hours at the disaster relief center, which has yet to come through for me with assistance, hours and hours of wide awake eyes and a racing heart, flashes of ‘what was’ crossing my awareness with wafts of sorrow, but/and a deep growing acceptance and anticipation in embracing the mystery that lies ahead. 

Quiet is needed now and I have been gifted with this new nest by the universe. 

The very same universe that fired through my previous life.

None of us know anything but we must trust. 

Always.

It’s exciting.

Beauty lies ahead.

And work! And creativity!

Thank you, God.

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Having heard yesterday that one could now acquire a certificate from Malibu City Hall that would allow one to go up and down Pacific Coast Highway freely, forever, without being questioned or escorted, I headed out this morning.

Three hours later, with pass in hand, what to do? Fly! My car knew where to go and so, without prior planning, we headed for home…and even though my house is not longer, it feels like home.

Right before I turned into my driveway, a neighbor walked out from around a curve in the road…spontaneous happiness in and seeing each other….BUT/AND this friend in the only one on our bluff whose house did not burn, and her sorrow was vicous.

Survivor guilt. As real as loss, but less manageable in ways.

We talked, and then she went inside her house and came out carrying the sweetest amaryllis and she handed her to me.

I have named her JOY, and she will come live with me in my new tiny dwelling next week!

It is in small moments that we sticth together a symbolic life.

JOY.

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Even though my introduction to the world of CBD gummies was wondrously fun, I have not actually partaken any. They sit there looking at me but they do not call me. Hence my heart-rate has continued to gallop.

What to do?

Earth to me…MY SEA LIONS. And so here I am.

A few days ago a friend alerted me to the fact that an entertainment community in Burbank was filling a spacious warehouse with furniture from retired tv shows and wrapped movies, and offering them as gifts to those that had lost ALL in the fire. That would be I.

I investigated the site and viewed images of a vast array of furniture, from artsy to elegant, from soul-less to dripping with history. There were images of delighted new owners and their new homesteads.

Hmmm. No. Beautiful for them, and what an incredibly creative, generous gesture, but not for me.

Why?

Eight years ago after a series of profoundly chaotic and intense years, a Buddhist monk, who I did not know, told me “You will be offered a place to live where you will heal and all of your dreams will come true. You will think that you cannot afford it but you will. You must say ‘Yes’.” The offer appeared and I did.

I drove out to West Covina and rescued my family treasures from a storage unit and the healing began.

Every single possession, from my grand mother’s demi tasse collection, to my father’s special wedding prayer, to Samm’s parting scroll, to Bob’s India journal, to my mother’s photographs and diaries, to my daughters’ ‘doings’ and and and then THE FURNITURE…every piece an heirloom holding volumes of history and tales of loss and triumph.

This was my dream space. I inhabited it quietly and privately with prayers of appreciation every day.

So. Now. I have been sheltered with loving grace by special friends for these three weeks, and now, change is in the air.

This space has another occupant on the way and so my wings are getting ready.

Next stop, a nest where the feathers and heart can relax. Long Beach.

To be continued,

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Snakes. Snake medicine, snake mythology, culturally passionately polarizing. 

Who really knows a snake?

Who really knows anything?

NOW, here in LA, we are in a collective dreamspace, in that we are all reverberating from the fire breathing dragon that wiped out our world, our lives, as we knew them. This creature, and its aftermath have been wielding its force even now, owning the room. Our work is to look the dragon in the eye and not create subplots that divert us away from focusing on beauty and moving forward and up.

To the Chinese, the snake is a creature that symbolizes calm, alertness, mystery and intelligence.  He also represents the potential for self cultivation…shedding of our former skins and ushering in growth and change.

How perfect for this moment.

May we each greet every morning of this new year that has been given as a gift,  throwing back the blinds with wonder and awe.  

WHAT BEAUTIFUL THING IS GOING TO HAPPEN TODAY?

Happy New Year, all.

And ps….SNAKES lived among us rather intimately in India….here, my brother at 16 with one of his babies,

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Three weeks ago today, in tandem with the fiire, my historically low blood pressure decided to re-create itself and sky rocket. I have never had high blood pressure, but being bodily aware, have been fascinated that the immediate ‘fight or flight’ hyperness that this mandatory evacuation propelled had stuck me in racing gear. 

As the days went by adjusting to my new reality which felt more like non reality, I remained aware but was not concerned, I was dealing with a lot.

But, I could not sleep. This was wearing on me. Hence a visit to the doctor.

The diagnosis, “alarmingly high blood pressure compared to your usual and CBD gummies would be a good plan.”

This rather tickled my fancy, and so I googled and found THE SHOP.

A gorgeous young brown skinned man with dreadlocks and a sparkling smile, interrupted his chat with a group of black friends, with “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I need something to calm myself down and the recommedation was CBD gummies, what do you think?”

One of then friends chimed in, “Getting high would do it”

“I don’t think so, I am rather high naturally.”

“Whoa, you go girl”

They all high fived.

“We want what you got!”

“But now I need to calm down.”

“Too much natural high ffor you?”

“No, I love how I am, but my house burned down.”

Silence.

I was bear hugged by the bunch.

The dreadlocks man walked over to the counter, picked up an 8-pack of CBD gunmmies, handed them to me with “On the house, M’am, but take only one if you’re new.”

“I am. I am very new.”

And they all high fived me and hugged me and I walked out. It was lovely.

Now?

We shall see.

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I grew up in South India. As a tiny girl, the ‘custom’ was for American children of missionaries and diplomats to go to boarding school…one in the north and one in the south of the country. As my father’s primary headquarters was in the south, Kodaikanal, in the Palni Hills, tea plantations, jungly forests and breath-taking rock formations, lakes and waterfalls, was where our school was located.

My parents were oblivious to the fact that when they told my sister and me that we would be home schooled, that this was not the case. I was 18 months older than my sister and therefore the first to go….new country, tyrant housemother, and a dorm full of girls that knew each other.

I sobbed into my pillow every night for weeks.

THEN, slowly a shift, into watching the wind in the giant eucalyptus tree outside my window at night with the howl and barking of jackals. This tree, the wind, the jackals became my safe place.

HOWEVER, as this mountain top was covered with eucalytus trees, whenever it rained, the smell of the leaves, along with the locals burning the leaves for fuel, permeated everything. THAT SMELL induced a poignancy in my soul, as it called to the forefront my longing for my parents and sister.

The smell of eucalyptus has created this for me forever, until, in these 8 years of living on my bluff, the two majestic queens of the bluff, overlooking the sea and shimmering in golden light, became, once again, my anchors, my friends, my connection to buried parts of myself. I sat up there every evening with them, snapping their leaves and breathing in deep whiffs, and those feelings of sorrow drifted away.

When we heard news of the fire, I ran up to the bluff, to look down the coast from there, towards Pacific Palisades….the fire seemed far enough away that there wasn’t particular concern. When the evacuation order came beating on the door and I drove down my road, I looked up at my trees.

And I have thought about them for this entire almost three weeks.

Two days ago, when I was able to go to my bluff, there they were, regal, watching, blackened bark and leaves but shimmering.

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Every human choses how to ride the waves of life, how to show up to others, and how connected to be to self. The choices can be conscious…or not.

I once read a Clarissa Pinkola Estes piece on women and truth…but I think this applies to all.

“Hi. How are you doing?”

“Fine.Everything’s good.”

“How are you really?”

“How many hours do you have?”

I’m guilty. Knee-jerked for fifty million years to be the one who ‘cares for’, hence if I am asked how I am : “I’m well, delighted with life, thank you.”

Truth?

Yes. True. But othernesses can be true as well in the same moment. Truths that are deep and trying to quiet and not sure where the balance is or where the joy went. Truths that must not be brought out into the light and not to be shared. Why? Vulnerability? Being less than? Giving power to that which feels safer if it is kept still?

Not sure.

But what I do know at this moment, is that spontaneous bursts of feelings and tears that the fire’s fierce destruction has loosened creates a plunge and upheaval of layers and layers that have kept serenely at bay forever until now.

A life-time of holding has broken forth.

Dare I say for multitudes in this city of ours?

And now the ride is about how to BE with this outing.

As nature connects me to beauty and God, and prior to fire was my daily immersement of heart and soul, I have been other-wise lately.

These days and hours I have been dealing with Fema and the Red Cross and lines of people and their stories and upset and being discombobulated with my present surroundings, and in amongst the ‘of this world loss’ I felt an indescribeable loss which I wasn’t able to define in the midst of it all.

And then I woke up.

Where have I been?

I walked. I walked and walked and walked and I found a temple of leaves. I sat under an umbrella of green with dapples of light quivering and streaming and I let it all in.

May we all be real with our deepest fears and look them in the eye in the light.

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A few days ago, a daddy longlegs, with gangly wildly unpredictable dancing legs, catalyzed a flash for me on Danny Kaye in “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court” and how my dad gaffawed just at the mention of the character, hence I dubbed this spider, ‘Danny’.

Danny, oh Danny, I’m sorry.

Danny first appeared above the sink of my present sheltering abode. I watched him watching me when I turned on the faucet or opened a cupboard. After a few days his web began to grow significantly and I felt that he had chosen the wrong place, and so I tried to catch him in a tissue and move him. He saw me coming and ran.

The next afternoon I spied him scooting along my suitcase…nevermind…he was moving quickly, thought I, and hadn’t decided to make his home there, so good, may he choose a more appropriate place.

Two nights later, in the middle of the night, on a trip to the bathroom, in a semi sleepy state, he dangled right down in front of me from the side of the toilet. ‘Not a good plan’ thought I, but I let him be.

No sign of him the next day.

The next night, same routine, but this time he had woven a giant web and not only was Danny sitting and peering at me with bright beady eyes, but he had caught a giant flailing beast in his net, right next to where I sat.

“Danny, Danny, I tried to give you space, I gave you a second chance, I tried to help you, BUT you made a bad decision. Good-bye.”

The End

PS…I have apologized to him all day today, and blessed him.

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Riding the wave of surrender and healing is as indiviual as we humans are.

Personally, the shock, then the tears, then a verison of grounding which feels solid and then suddenly is not..

I believed that I had NO photos of my nest. My memory is keen, and as my haven has been my place of beauty and solace, I was supremely present with it, but I wanted to find concrete images to sit with, and so I went on a quest, and the quest was successful.

Prior to this FINDING, there was one dangling sorrow, its importance cannot be qualified. When I found this in one of the photos, I pushed the button that makes things bigger so that I could read it and “Thank you God”, came though me.

A poem that was given to me by my oldet daughter, written by her when she was 17.

She was born with many gifts, and THIS….is one.

My mother, the Argentinian horse woman,

has a fire in her belly hotter than

the tango on a nght scented with

musk and cherry blossoms.

I grew inside

that fire.

It must have felt like a volcanoe

inside her when I was born. Fire

birthing fire is a storng thing. And

so we are sautered together through

the umbilical cord though the umbilical cord has long been

cut and dry.

She has hands like islands

in the river of her life.

As she twinkles in her daily grown up doings.

Her fingers, cool and soft like stems, drum up earth

in all she touches. Luckliy she touches me,

So I feel the earth in my veins too.

The earth has fissures like

the sea has storms.

Somehow, someway

I crave

She craves

We bring our goblins out for a boxing match

And then the talking is hard.

Yet still

Only in those eyes do I see the shade of green

found in mine after a swim or a good cry.

Like she is me cleansed

or I am her inside a dark alluring cave.

She is an Argentinian horsewoman

The Queen of the Dance

A fertile feminine form

She is a river to many, a star to more

To me she is the Source: the volcanoe from which I sprang

And the delta to which I will return.

Elemental goddess

Mother of mine.

The fire that came and turned our homes to ashes, cannot touch what is most important.

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Tuesday Evening—One week after……                                            

                                                             Prologue

‘Magical’ was the word that sprang forth from my grand children’s mouths with the mention of my Malibu nest.  My carved Indian trunk ,with elephants parading around its lower edge, served as a coffee table, per se, upon which antique fairy tale books, a delicate glistening purple glass that held pink and white crystals, and a soft blue blown glass wish ball.

Upon arrival, removal of shoes, the opening of a mystical card that held directions for the treasure hunt of the day,  and the hunt was on! At some point, always, a clue led to the wish ball, hence the deposit of wishes through a tiny hole, never to be retrieved, but surely to come true, and then on to a picnics on the dragon rug.

My daughter’s family moved from LA, where back and forth visitng was frequent, to a community farther south, when the pandemic arrived. The visits were no longer frequent and Indra, the youngest had no experience at all of the Mamgee cottage, though tales of ‘it’ kept it very much alive.

                                                The Story

Yesterday my daughter called me from her car, Indra in tow, and the phone speaker on.

“Hi Mom, how are you doing?”

“MAMGEEEEE! What’s the fire doing?”

“Oh my goodness, Indra, the fire is behaving a bit like popcorn, popping up here and there and you never know where it’s going to come next, but you’re safe and so am I”

“Good! But when your things burned, what about the wish ball?”

“Hmmm, well, the wish ball is gone, but you know what?”

“What?”

“I think a new wish ball is coming. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I think YOU should be the very first person to make a wish on it, what do you think?”

“YES!!!!!! I would like to!”

“Wonderful!  One day, hopefully soon, you will come see me and it will be waiitng>”

“But where will I come?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know right now, but when I figure that out I will need help in making a new home, will you help me?”

“YES!!! And can Luciana, and Moses and Huck help too?”

“Oh Yes! That would be the most wonderful thing! We will do it together!”.

                                                 THE END

And healing happened in that conversation.

And if you look very carefull, you can see the wish ball half in/half out of the picture.

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These little bears…a mother and two babies.

As a girl, when not in India, my family summered in northern Michigan…my parents finally retired there as they loved it so passionately.

There is a native American tale of a mother bear who was driven into Lake Michigan to escape a forest fire. The mother bear reached the shore first and climbed to the top of a high bluff to watch and wait for her cubs. The cubs drowned within sight of the shore. The Great Spirit created two islands to mark the spot where the cubs disappeared and then created a solitary dune to represent the eternal vigil of the mother bear.

As a family we adored the Sleeping Bear dunes…and my mother gave me these bears for my birthday one year.

SO much in this story….tears are flowing….BUT the fact that I scooped them UP and put them in a hat as I ran out the door, a PHENOMENAL gift to self.

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