In Praise of Technology

I recently spent a month in Todos Santos, Baja Sur. In exchange for house/pet sitting, I got four weeks of solitude in a casita, during which I was able to work on a book project about Dr. Warren Borgquist. The prospect of leaving California for an extended time to write was exciting, but I also hated the thought of missing out on the active lives of my family, all of whom live nearby. Close proximity to my fifteen grandkids is a blessing I’m grateful for everyday, especially when I talk with friends whose families are scattered all over the world.

I had no idea the degree to which I’d be singing the praises of technology while on this trip, but I found that there were a gazillion ways to stay in touch while also working faithfully on my project.

I tutored and responded to the essays of two grandsons and two granddaughters, via Facetime and Google Docs. I watched videos of two granddaughters in their dance classes and viewed pictures of my swiftly growing 15-month old grandson. Toward the end of the trip, two videos arrived in iMessage of him learning to stand and then learning to walk while pushing a rolling toy. I watched my brother walk the Camino de Santiago compliments of a photo album on iCloud. I texted and emailed with family and friends, staying abreast of their exciting lives. I chatted on Facetime with Cindy several times a week and we texted one another all day long. I also consulted with my daughter-in-law via Facetime to get clarification on a medical procedure about which I was writing. And I remotely promoted a Writers Workshop that was scheduled to take place several days after I returned home.

At the same time I was writing my third book in Baja, the Kindle version of my first book, BetweenTwo Women, was published on Amazon. And of course, the work I was doing on the book could not have been accomplished without a computer and word processing while listening to MP3 files of some of the interviews I've conducted.

Though I’m a happy and relatively competent user of technology, this experience of maintaining wholesome communication with my loved ones while far away was new to me. I feel gratified to be a writer working in the 21 Century—one who can have her solitude and community too.

Kindness Training

I’m not an unkind person, but I’m certainly not someone for whom the attribute “kind” is the first thing that comes to mind. In fact, kindness is an issue I’ve grappled with since about 2nd grade when I wasn’t very nice to a classmate. I snubbed her friendly invitation to play and headed off to inch my way into a group that seemed more popular. This behavior became a habit, particularly with this one girl. I’m not sure when I realized I was being unkind, but I do recall that I eventually came to think about it at night when I would promise myself to be nicer to Judy the next day. But I never seemed to be able to pull it off.

I thought about it for years, especially when I felt myself behaving similarly to others later in life. What was astonishing is that at my 10-year high school reunion, Judy greeted me warmly as if I was one of her oldest and dearest friends. We had a wonderful chat, and I learned that she and her husband had bought a home around the corner from the house in which I grew up. She regularly talked with my dad and knew a lot about my life. Had this woman never felt my snubs? Or was she simply one of those extremely forgiving and, dare I say, kind people?

The Judy scenario was one that continued to niggle at the edges of my conscience for years. And though I eventually could catch myself in the act of such behavior and change it, I hadn’t exactly stopped doing the snub thing. Moreover, another example of a particular lack of thoughtfulness slammed me one evening as I rushed into a big bookstore to make a purchase while my spouse waited in the car. The man who held the door for me called attention to the fact that I had walked right in without so much as a thank you. I was terribly embarrassed, so much so that I couldn’t even make my purchase. You see, my spouse had been calling me on this lack of courtesy for a while, but when a stranger pointed it out, I woke up.

These two incidents had a great deal to do with my plan to go into kindness training in 2014. Athletic models work for me so training was the word that worked. It seemed that I had been aware of this flaw in my character for a long time, but I had not been able change it. Training was necessary to make that happen. Here’s an overview of the training I’ve undertaken this year:

1.  I needed an affirmation. Kindness became my word for 2014.

2.  I needed a coach, so I bought and read Guerrilla Kindness by Gavin Whitsett. I used a highlighter and post-its to mark the suggestions that stood out—many that had never occurred to me and some that I wanted to beef up in my life.

3. Then I made a list of 66 Kindnesses that I wanted to work on this year (I’m 66 this year, so that’s where the number came from).

4. Whitsett recommends marking 20% of the Kindnesses that you think will be easy to implement, so I did that too.

5. Then I set an alarm on my phone to ring every Friday at 7am reminding me to reread the entire list and create a “Kindness Plan” for the upcoming week. I list 4-6 Kindnesses, two of which are more challenging or take longer or more effort.

6. Then I get to work training to be kind.

I’m not an intuitively kind person, like my spouse or one of my granddaughters, but I have to say the impulse is getting more automatic, and I LOVE Fridays. There is so much joy in working on a specific Kindness, like preparing a meal for a friend who is ill, dropping off old magazines at local laundromats, stopping to buy gift certificates for ice cream, the car wash, or movie tickets to give to service people. I’ve learned the names of 10 of my neighbors, so I can speak to them by name when I’m outdoors. I’ve trained myself to the let others end hugs and handshakes.

Best of all, I’m swerving off my intended path more often than not to lend a hand when I notice the opportunity for kindness. No more niggling worry about snubbing Judy, but I do offer a mental thanks to her for helping me see the light.

Dengue & Me

I might not ever know for sure if I had dengue fever, but what I do know is that after I returned from Baja Sur, I fell ill in a whole new way. I was wracked by fever that set my blood or my nerves (I could never be certain which) humming with agitation. The constant sensation of tremor that didn't subside even when the fever did was disconcerting and frightening. Thirst was constant and yet water often tasted metallic or sometimes like flowers or putrid like sewage. Cottonmouth was a constant. My entire digestive system was rumbling, not with hunger but with tiny waves of peristalses that made me feel constantly sea-sick nauseous. Meanwhile, the headache behind my eyes made me yearn for darkness. I couldn't look at a screen for more than a few minutes. On the worst day, I could barely text a three letter response to my daughter who was monitoring me from her home while Cindy was attending an event where I was supposed to be. A tiny bloody nose started a sore in my nose that caused me to sneeze again and again for days. My lips were chapped and my upper lip felt swollen with herpes that never actually appeared. I shuffled from the recliner to the couch in my office to the bed, trying to change my recumbent position to ease the constant ache in my back. Every step made my head pound and my eyes blur. Tinnitus rang in my ears.

On day 3, the fever subsided. On Day 5, I woke in the night with such severe nausea that I decided to go to the ER for monitoring. It was the right thing to do in terms of getting blood work and easing my mind about symptoms that might have indicated I'd moved into DHF—Dengue Hemorraghic Fever—the more severe version, the onset of which is 4 to 7 days into the illness, but the experience left me beyond sad about the absence of my long term family doctor, Warren Borgquist, not to mention wasted from being out in the cold in the middle of the night. By the middle of Day 6, I sensed a shift. The tremor was quieting, not so noisy in my body and maybe even absent for minutes at a time. That was the day that Cindy and I teamed up to make chicken soup. She was sick with a cold, and we knew we needed to nourish ourselves if we wanted to recover. We cooked an organic chicken and sat at the counter to cut vegetables and strip the chicken off the bones. Then I took a long nap and when I got up, I was able to eat a few bites, the first food I'd been able to eat other than mashed potatoes since getting ill. Over the next few days that soup was hugely nourishing. Soon, I was munching on raisins and eating applesauce in between larger and larger bowls of soup. On day 9, I had my first cup of tea, ate a boiled egg and tomato sandwich, and rode with Cindy to town to get a movie from Redbox and veggies for spinach salad. She took one of her scenic routes (read geographically challenged in Sonora) and I didn't even care. I just looked out the window and enjoyed the fall colors.

This morning, I'm sitting in front of a screen writing a blog with a cup of tea on my end table. I'm five pounds lighter, my lips are cracked and peeling, and the face that looked back at me from the mirror this morning is tinged with gray BUT I'm on the other side of my strange tropical illness. This morning I added a book to my wish list: “Almost an Island: Travels in Baja.” Not shying away from that exotic, intriguing place, though I will be sure to pack mosquito repellent for my next visit there or anywhere such insects fly.

Rim Fire Days

There was a puff of smoke in the sky to the south, clearly a fire, something our eyes are alert to in the foothills all summer. We watched a pyrocumulus cloud form on the horizon--beautiful but not benign. The cloud flattened and roiled. Helicopters, air tankers, and fire engines roared into the county. Thus commenced the Rim Fire Days.

At Masters swim practice, I peeked under my arm as I swam watching the helicopters and then a DC-10 flying low. It felt as if the helicopter was going to dip its bucket into Lane 5 for water to douse the fire.

My son texted at 10pm Wednesday saying a fire fighter friend warned they would soon be on advisory evacuation. He wanted to bring his family to my house. "Come on down!" I texted back.  It would be a day and half before his wife called and said, "We are packing up and heading to your place." I'd just spent a sweet hour in an interview with Marjorie and Karma Borgquist talking about family. As I drove away, Phillip Phillips came on the car radio singing "Just know your not alone/I'm gonna make this place your home." I drove quickly to make space for a family of six and their pets.

We moved the Harrelson family in, parked their bikes on the patio and Humphrey, the guinea pig, on the washing machine and made plans for dinner. Cindy and Taylor went shopping, and Cody and Kyle went for a ride on nearby dirt roads in the Samurai. After a dinner, everyone took to screens-- iPads, smart phones, and computers-- to see what was happening. We were consumed with watching the fire via the Internet--mostly Facebook and My Mother Lode, but also InciWeb and a few other sites. The Groveland Facebook page became our favorite site. We called out different reports and showed each other incredible images. Our wifi got so overloaded that the Internet on my computer stalled.

The next morning when I took my tea to the patio, the smoke was as thick as a January fog. I soon headed inside where breathing was easier. The next few days were a whirl of games, guitar music, fire monitoring, food prep, and watching our animals make friends with the Harrelson animals. The days were hot and smokey and filled with family fun. When they decided to head home Sunday afternoon, the quiet in our house was enormous. We missed them.

The next day, the earache I'd been nursing all weekend flared; I tried to catch up on freelance work but kept getting drawn back to fire monitoring on Facebook. Then I got an email from my sister Ginger reporting an offer had been made on the San Francisco house where we grew up.  The world smelled like smoke; the sky turned an eerie crimson and gold at sunset. I was unsettled!

Cindy made cookies, and we took them to an elementary school where firemen were bivouacked. We walked out Plainview Road to the point and watched smoke curling in big plumes from Paper Cabin Ridge. Behind us, the sun was a giant orange globe.

For a seven days, the fire was all we could think about. It wasn't over, but there was a sense that things were pointed in the right direction, that we could resume whatever it was that had stopped or slowed or slipped.  Tomorrow would be different. But first we stood still on that hill until the sky was dark and all we could see was a deep red glow in the distance.

6423-25 Legacy

When I was six years old, my family moved into a flat on California Street in San Francisco in a building that my dad and his brother had renovated.  We lived upstairs in the 3 bedroom flat with a big back porch and a great yard that had one tree with a tree house. In time, my dad built gates into the 3 neighboring backyards where our friends lived and our playing space expanded exponentially.

Downstairs from the flat at street level was my dad's upholstery shop. Behind the shop and up a short flight of stairs was a small apartment where my uncle lived for a time. After that it was a space for visiting relatives or temporary housing for my dad's workers. Also behind the shop and below the apartment was a basement.

When my parents divorced, my dad moved into the apartment, and he rented the flat to a woman who had one daughter. During the last year of my dad's life, my uncle moved into the shop creating a little living space at the back near the apartment. He piled as much of his belongings as he could on top of my father's already abundant collection at the front of the shop, all around the living space he had shaped, and in the basement. He took care of my dad during his last months, and once he had sufficiently grieved my dad's passing, he moved into the apartment where he lived 18 more years until his death this past January. He didn't remove any of my dad's things but settled his life on top of that of my father's. The upstairs tenant remained in the flat for 42 years.

Now my siblings and I are diving into the legacy in the building at 6423-25 California Street. The layers are deep and pitted with emotion. Last weekend, Cindy and I met my sister Ginger, my son Raleigh, his wife Jenny, and their son Kyle for our second dive into the bowels of the shop and apartment. Well actually, it is the 3rd dive as the fire marshall demanded some cleanup a year ago, and a family contingent spent two days sorting and hauling away much of the flammable material. But there are still mountains of stuff left.

Here's what I want to say: While this could be viewed as a terrible mess left for the heirs to deal with (it is), it is also an opportunity for an endearing thread of connection between the generations. Candice acquires some of her Great Uncle Buddy's record albums and Haydon gets some of his model airplanes. Jenny gets one of Grandpa Stasiu's whale knick-knacks and a photo of Kyle with a 20-year-old jar of Grandpa's kombucha brew; Culley takes the copper triangle that hung over his grandpa's head for years and Raleigh has a tool heyday. Cindy makes a pile of scrap metal for her folks while Ginger and I zero in on memorabilia like a black metal tin with pink flamingos filled with silver coins and a glass box both of which belonged to our father.

We have a couple more trips planned into this crazy haven of history and accumulation. Each time, relatives of the family who first moved into 6423-25 will dive in to see what they can find. Not only is it an hilarious experience of "one person's junk is another person's treasure," these visits are a catch-all for satisfying memories.

Family Daze

Last Sunday, Clare and I went to Mass at St. Josephs in Mariposa. During the homily, the priest talked about Blue Monday, a late January phenomena of depression related to the middle of winter, cold, dark days, lots of sickness, and the distance from both Christmas and Easter with their sacred energy. He went on to offer three practical ways to manage the challenges this time of year brings: gratitude, an affirming attitude, and kindness.

The last week of January 2013 was full of such blueness in our family. The flu hit Cindy's parents and Jennie Lou and Clare. My son's father-in-law was extremely ill and ended up in the hospital as did Cindy's dad. Michael and Raleigh were out of town which left their wives limping along without their main support, and to make matters worse the elder sons, who pitch in with driving and child care, were also away. My daughter-in-law leaped to help her dad, and many friends and I stepped forward to help manage the children--including providing transportation to school, work, and sports--and overnight supervision. Jennie Lou's car broke down, leaving her not only sick but basically stranded. So I did some driving to get those kids to and from school and other events. Over in Mariposa, where Cindy was helping her folks, the pump to the well went out leaving them without water after dark on Friday night. It was dizzying week that could have dropped us to our knees or at least into sick beds but it didn't.

Without actually thinking about, we were doing what the priest recommended. We were grateful to be healthy and have the strength needed to help. We were willing, which was definitely an affirming attitude. And I'm pretty sure we were kind in everything we did.

We love our HUGE family even when dazed with blue moments--for we see the tenderness there and know the blessing.

Solo

For several years I've been wanting to have a dog in my life again. It's been over 20 years since I last owned a dog, but for the first 40 years of my life I was never without one.  Not sure what sparked the recent urge; perhaps it was just a dormant ember that never went away.

My dog has almost arrived on three different occasions. First, I found a Beagle on a rescue site whose mistress had died. The surviving spouse was moving into a small apartment and didn't feel he could keep the dog. On the day I was supposed to go meet her, I got cold feet and called the gentleman. Relief flooded through me to hear him say he took my change of heart as a sign that he needed to keep the dog after all.

The next dog who nearly came to live with me was my grandson's dog, Baxter, who actually spent a week visiting. At the time, my daughter and her family were considering a move out of the area, and it was going to be difficult to take Baxter with them. She asked if I would consider keeping Baxter when they left. I said, "Yes" because I'd enjoyed this companionable dog and walking him several times a day. But then the move fell through, and Baxter stayed with the family he'd known most of his life.

Solo is the 3rd dog. Several weeks ago my brother emailed that Solo, a sweet Baja hound, had been abandoned by his gringo owners. Andy thought Solo would be the perfect dog for me. I fell in love immediately.

But still, I hesitated. I spent a week thinking about Solo, imagining him in my home and heart, and I was blessed with learning much about myself. Here are the highlights:

• The email and picture of Solo came hours after I learned of my Uncle Buddy's death, which drew a firm line between my love of animals and my Uncle, who in many ways cultivated that love.
• My brother and my son reminded me of the unique love a dog gives, which is undoubtedly a thing a long for.
• When Cindy stopped letting the decision be all mine and joined whole-heartedly in imagining Solo as our dog, the picture of him in our home grew vivid and alive. I could really feel what it would mean to grow our family with the presence of this dog. The reality was wonderful and also sobering.
• Several weeks ago, I wrote in my journal that I planned to radically change the priorities in my life in 2013. Solo was a test of what that meant to me, for adding him to my life would certainly be a radical change. But suddenly this morning I knew that what I meant by radical change was letting go of wanting and making more space in my life.

I wrote to my brother and his wife saying I declined the offer of Solo. As much as I appreciated being their choice and as much as I wanted him, I knew I needed to look a different way.

A few minutes later, I read this poem by a writer I studied with in graduate school. Some how it seemed to resonate prophetically for better or worse with my decision. 

ThePhysics of the Known World

by Paul Lisicky

That silly retriever. He doesn't go to the two guys looking right at him, beaming him awake with concentrated joy. Not at all: he goes straight to the man with his head turned to the left, who could care less about doggy behavior and isn't the least bit stirred by the snout parked in the knee and the wagging hind parts. And that's it: the physics of the known world. Which is why the trees look better when they're left unwatered, and the birds actually prefer it when you don't sing back to them. And the holy man crossing the street with the black brim hat? He knows better than to pick up what he's dropped and lift his face to the mountains. Take it from him, friend. You probably wouldn't even want it if the light hit you in your head.

Uncle Buddy

Uncle Buddy was nothing like my dad, his brother. He was bald, smoked a pipe, and listened to classical music. For a good part of my childhood, he lived in an apartment behind my dad's shop. We lived in the flat upstairs--we being my mom and dad and four siblings. I was the eldest, and I always felt like I was Uncle Buddy's favorite.

That may or may not have been so, but what I do know is that I loved going down to his apartment to pet Uncle Buddy's Siamese cat, Spookie, until my eyes reddened and tears spilled from allergies. We had a dog upstairs, but I liked cats despite being allergic to them. Mostly, however, I enjoyed sitting in the sunny peaceful apartment in a pall of pipe smoke and drifting cat hair, listening to a Tchaikovsky piano concerto and mesmerized by the spinning turntable of my uncle's record player. It was a quiet interlude from the busy household upstairs.

When my best friend, moved from San Francisco to San Bruno when I was 7, it was Uncle Buddy who took me to see her on Saturday afternoons. It seemed like I had to beg him to take me. "Please, Uncle Buddy, can you take me to see Nancy?" And it seemed like he always did. I can't imagine what he did while I played with my friend for several hours. All I remember is the foggy drive back to the city on Skyline Boulevard.

When our family dog was hit by car, I was devastated. A few months later, Uncle Buddy took me to pick out a puppy to replace her. It was Uncle Buddy who taught me how to potty train the puppy and teach it to walk on a lead. I know I eventually tired of this responsibility and my mom took over Lucky's care, but I think I learned a lot because Uncle Buddy believed I could do it.  He also showed me how to feed the wounded pigeons I brought home and he brought the beautiful green parrot that lived in a cage in our dining room for many years. I know my love and appreciation of animals was stirred by this man.

Uncle Buddy taught me how to drive in his 1956 Jaguar--a stick shift. He had me practice in the quiet streets in the Sea Cliff district until I mastered the clutch. And then he took me on busier streets and taught me how to stop and go on the hills of San Francisco and how to parallel park on Clement Street. I passed my driver's test on my 16th birthday on the very first try. The following summer, he let me have the Jaguar for the month of August in Twain Harte where we had a summer cabin. But first he made sure I knew how to check the oil, fill it with gas, and change a flat tire.

My adult relationship with Uncle Buddy was distant and somewhat strained. I don't think he wanted me to grow up. But a few weeks ago, I visited him at the VA hospital. He was 90 years old, blind, hard of hearing, and frequently delirious, but in a moment of lucidity he said, "Ah, Patsy. Your hair is grey now. I saw a picture of you in your boat. Beautiful! You will live a long time." He was remembering a card I'd sent him 9 years earlier when he could still see a little. I held his big hand and let the tears drop on the bedsheets.

The blessings of elders are special. Uncle Buddy blessed me with loving attention as a child, but this blessing a few days before his death on January 6, 2013 was a treasure.

Technology: The Savior--Sort Of

The Dixon family was terribly disappointed to learn that neither Kenny nor Rex would make it home for Christmas this year. Kenny is a student at Columbia University who couldn't afford the plane fare and Rex was scheduled to work with his Staten Island Coast Guard crew. Christmas would not be the same without these guys.

But wait! With Facetime we could bring them home--sort of!

Sandie set up computers on the dining room table and dialed the boys. VIOLA! There they were. We opened gifts, laughed and cried with them. And not just once but twice: first, on Christmas Eve when they opened their Christmas jammies AND again on Christmas morning when everyone was opening gifts. We laughed when Rex explained that he had locked himself in a room at the station so his buddies couldn't tease him about his gifts "from Santa." And we teared up when Kenny broke down about missing Christmas and his dog Summer licked his tears away. It wasn't flesh and blood, but it was close. The spaces they usually occupied on the couch next to their sister Sabrina opening gifts were not empty.

Later in the morning, nephew Perry called on Facetime from Virginia, and the whole extended family got to visit with Perry, his wife Erin, and their four kids. The wonders of technology brought them across the country to the big family celebration.

Meanwhile, I was communicating via email with my siblings about our Uncle Buddy who at 90 is approaching the end of his life and needing our attention. Because of email, we are able to all be part of one conversation about his care even though we are miles apart in Florida, Northern California--Fremont, Fort Bragg, Jamestown-- and in Todos Santos, Mexico.

Holiday celebrations put the focus on family, and this year, the wonders of technology enhanced that focus--pixelating and dispatching sights, sounds, and news. And to prove my point, as I was writing this blog post, I got an email from my Aunt Jean in Yuma AZ to which she attached a scanned photo of me, my brother, and my maternal grandparents taken in 1951.

I'm thankful for the technology that saves spaces, faces, and memories.

Abundant Heart

My heart filled again and again in the week before Christmas, this year. It all began with Occupy Christmas. For a time, I didn't think it was going to be possible to pull off our annual Christmas party, but with the creative thinking of four people, the event was more than I hoped for. My heart was so full with the sound of family after the party that I had trouble going to sleep. What I didn't know was how much that party set the stage for the rest of the week as each day found me doing and experiencing things I never thought possible.

On Monday, Clare and Mary Autumn spent the afternoon with us. Four-year-old Clare is a delightful chatterbox, but my heart melted in conversation with Mary Autumn. As Clare hung out chatting with Cindy, Mary Autumn and I colored and talked-- truly talked. Eight-year-olds aren't usually interested in how their grandmothers spend their days, but Mary Autumn's curiosity was deeply sincere when she said, "What did you do before we came over today?" Her mature inquiry was matched with careful listening and questions about my broken car which I'd taken for repairs and the chores I'd performed. What a joy to find a sympathetic ear in this young granddaughter.

On Tuesday evening, I joined a powerful clan of women for dinner. Each woman had served as Faculty Senate President at the local college, and the group meets three times a year to discuss the challenges of leadership and celebrate successes. After retiring from the college, I stopped attending these gatherings, but one of the gals reminded me that I am always welcome and encouraged me to join the party this year. A surge of energy pulsed in my heart in the presence of all this glowing feminine power. Wit, intelligence, and camaraderie were abundant at the table. I'd misplaced this measure of commanding influence and was thrilled to partake again.

On Wednesday, I enjoyed two heart boosters. At Masters swim practice, I didn't think it was possible to swim six 100s faster than my base time, but nestled in the middle of four lane mates, I gave the task my all and surprised myself with the speed I needed. Later I met with Write-on Women, my writers group. Despite icy roads and December demands, eight creative women made this meeting a priority. Being in the company of others--be it writers or swimmers-- injects my heart with a can-do spirit when most of me is screaming "I don't want to!."

Thursday was a heart melting day all day. My 35 year-old son Raleigh volunteered to accompany me on the three hour drive to San Francisco to see my 90-year-old Uncle Buddy who is in the hospital with delirium and severe back pain. Raleigh infused the trip with his philosophy of love. The city of my birth was beautiful beyond belief from the first clear sighting on the 580 to unsurpassable views from the Chapel in the VA Hospital. Uncle Buddy was sweetly demented in his brown beanie addressing me as the 12 year old he once knew. I held his hand-- deeply veined and pearly translucent-- while Raleigh prayed until Uncle Buddy sank back into his chair and slept. So dear is the arc of life.

Friday night, my dharma buddies had an end-of-the-world-party. The instructions were to wear something we never get to wear and bring a gift to recycle. We also each brought specialty foods for an elegant potluck dinner served on china with crystal glasses and silver flatware. Twelve gorgeous women dressed to the hilt, enjoyed a stellar meal from an amazing table and engaged in several hours of noble conversation. We were prepared to go out on a superior moment! My heart was buoyant with promise and no need to know what would come next.

Saturday was a heart-opening yoga workshop, in which the instructor Rocky Heron had no doubt that students could do things they previously did not think possible. And so with his help, I did my first handstand at age 64. I was overwhelmed, grinning and crying at the same time. My heart was wide open as I headed home to find dear Cindy sweetening the house with her presence, her love of the holidays, and her boundless energy on behalf of our family. Hers is a love that always lifts me higher!

It's risky to step out in the world with my heart wide open, but this week, open-heartedness allowed all manner of joy and love to flow in.

Occupy Christmas

Reinventing family traditions after a divorce can be a real challenge, so I'm delighted to be in the 5th year of an annual Christmas Party thrown by my kids' father, his new wife, Bonnie, and me and my partner, Cindy. Splitting the costs and labor, the four of us start prepping for the party in September. Then each year, despite incredibly busy lives, our 3 children and their families--14 grandkids in all-- come together on a Sunday afternoon in December to make merry. A trimmed tree, lights and streamers, food, gifts and stockings are part of the mix, but also lots of catching up for both kids and adults. Though we all live in the same county, we lead full, rich lives, so connections are haphazard and intermittent and rarely involve the whole crowd. Speaking for myself, the best part of this party is the chance to make memorable connections with cousins, in-laws, uncles and aunts. Of course, the kids are pretty interested in the gifts and stockings too.

This year we ran into some hurdles. Our finances got murky, and Cindy and I weren't able to squirrel away a regular monthly deposit to our Christmas fund. Raymond was scheduled for knee replacement surgery three weeks before the party, and we knew he would not be doing much elfing. Plus, he was very entrenched in the local "Occupy" movement, and he wanted to Occupy Christmas. For a brief moment, we considered canceling the party this year, but that idea went up in a poof of smoke. Instead, we put on our thinking caps and started modifying our usual modus operandi, especially when it came to gifts.

We began with the Occupy Christmas motif and grabbed the idea to choose gifts that were made in the USA. Then we decided we wanted to involve local merchants or businesses somehow. The year before, I had come up with the idea of including one personal treasure that belonged to one of us in each stocking. We decided to include those treasures in the main gift and ask the grandkids to each contribute 3 small treasures of their own as stocking stuffers. We gave them stickers, asked them to attach their names to the items, and we collected them the Sunday before Thanksgiving. The kids complied with a delightful array of things from compasses to toy cars to nail polish.

On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the day before Raymond's surgery, we met to decide which kids would get which treasures in their gifts and stockings. This was a super fun chore. When one of us suggested a certain treasure for one of the children, we went with it, totally trusting our very first instincts. I named Huck recipient of my magnetic poetry. Cindy thought Leon should have Nell's dream oil. Bonnie thought Anna Mae would like her sleep mask. Raymond dropped the hacky-sacks into Aliou's pile.  For the main gift, we had ordered American made bath sheets for each child and hired a local seamstress to appliqué each child's name on his or her towel.

I admit to a bit of trepidation the morning of the party. Would the kids be disappointed with this variant on previous parties?  Definitely not!  The smiles, laughter and shouts rang with full-fledged Christmas wonder. Huck wore his towel like a toga for an hour after opening it. Mary Autumn and Nell lined their gifts on the floor beside the tree to admire. Leon pumped dream oil on anyone who approached him, and the four who got our headlamps ran out in the dark to play.

Granddaddy had to leave early as this was the most activity his bionic knee had seen in weeks, but everyone else stayed late-- occupying Christmas.

Graduation Advice

Two grandsons and a niece graduate from high school this week. All week, I've been trying to come up with some kind of wisdom to posit with these young people. Graduating high school is really a big thing, but the truth is that from my vantage point at 64, all I can see is that they are babes with only vague ideas about what they want to do next.

And I don't think it should be otherwise. I don't see how a young person of 17 or 18 can possible know what he or she wants to do with the rest of life. It seems crazy to me to ask a kid to not only keep going to school—i.e. college-- but also to choose a major which will lead to life work. So the fact that these kids have only loosely defined plans for the next year or so doesn't bother me.

I do think they need to go somewhere and do something. I just don't think school is necessarily that thing. A summer of work and some good times with friends is a great next step after high school. Then it depends on the kid what will come after that.

These three don't have a great deal in common except for the fact that each of them has been super engaged in sports during high school. As I was making their graduation cards, I realized that I was tapping into this sporting interest for images for the cards. Then early this morning when I was cutting, arranging, and pasting pictures of bicycles and skiing onto the cards, I had a flash that the athletic learning that took place during my teen years has been the most enduring skill set in my life.

I certainly learned concepts in Geometry and facts in Government and read classics in English class while in high school, but it was the skill set that I developed as a competitive swimmer that has been with me every step of the way into adulthood, middle age, and on into my twilight years.

I learned to roll out of bed and get to work early, even when my body was screaming for sleep. I learned to push through fatigue, exertion, breathlessness, disappointment, and pain for greater gain. I learned to cooperate, respect authority, and recognize my self-worth. I learned to win and lose. I learned to laugh, congratulate, and lean into hard work. I learned how it feels to come in last and to be first, second, or tenth. I learned how to be coached and how to mentor. And most of all I learned how to celebrate!

So graduates—August, Cody, and Sabrina—remember what you learned on the ski slope, the soccer field, the bike trail, the softball diamond, the yoga mat! Those were the lessons that are full of life! And celebrate this landmark accomplishment.

Transition: What's next after high school?

Two of my grandsons, the eldest two, are about to graduate from high school. Their parents are thinking about what the next steps will be for these boys, and I suspect the boys might be giving it some thought too. I like my position as grandmother, one who has a little distance from the momentous step these boys are about to take.

I do have some pretty strong opinions about the transition from high school to young adulthood. My ideas are based on watching my own 3 children make the transition and also come from witnessing the children of friends and family as well as hundreds of young people at Columbia College take this step.

I think kids need to embark on a growth inducing activity immediately after high school, in particular one that throws them out of their comfort zone into an environment that challenges them. The degree of challenge depends on the kid, but it should definitely push their edges, make them feel uncomfortable and confused and ultimately provide the space and support to develop effective decision making skills. In most cases, this involves moving to a new setting away from the home and family in which the child was raised.

Here are some of the things I've seen accomplish this transition effectively:

• going to a foreign country either as a student, a missionary, or a traveler,
• going into the military,
• doing service work, e.g. working in inner city schools or conversely wilderness areas, assisting in a disaster or poverty torn area, Ameri-Corps, California Conservation Corps, or other service directed group,
• getting a full time job,
• moving into an apartment or dormitory with roommates,
• getting married.
  

Notice that I don't include going to college in this list. While attending college might be part of any of these, the school experience is not fresh enough to give kids the PUSH they need at this time. There has to be an element of challenge and discomfort that comes from moving to a unique setting where they have to think and decide.

I recognize that the discomfort also hits the parents because they have to watch with a certain amount of hands off approach. It can be an incredibly scary time. At best, they have to offer moral support and maybe a little financial assistance, but the trick is getting out of the kid's way and letting him or her muddle through. In most cases, this takes about a year for something fairly dramatic to take place

Of course, there are a few for whom it will take many years because of developmental and or psychological differences, and there are many parents who stymie their kids by being too intrusive or directive which makes the passage take longer. And yes, there are kids who go wildly astray, driven by incomprehensible forces both internal and external. But a large majority of the kids I've watched make their way with only a few tumbles, scrapes, and bruises.

I don't think the "what" is as important as the "how." That's not to diminish the intensity of what parents feel as they try to guide an offspring toward the setting that will accomplish the most effective transition. There are probably several possibilities, but once launched, the work is to breathe while the young person learns to swim into adulthood.

It's as exciting and disconcerting as any other stage of parenting.

Yoga & Metaphor

Last Sunday, I went to a wonderful Yoga workshop by Rocky Heron, called "Journey into Bliss." The workshop focused on back bending poses which Rocky wanted us to look at as heart opening postures.

I've always been intrigued by the body/mind connection that is intrinsic to yoga, so I particularly like teachers who help me see how a pose is connected to the way that I think and/or hold my body. For instance, Rocky spoke about how much of our day is spent slouched forward with our shoulders curved so the chest cavity encircles our hearts. To bend backward is to open and expose the chest area and therefore the heart. Metaphorically the heart is the seat of emotional experience, so opening that area is to make ourselves vulnerable to feeling.

Back bends are my least favorite pose while I adore forward bends. It probably comes as no surprise then that I'm also much more comfortable with thought than I am with feeling. But I knew what the workshop was about, and I was willing-- in fact eager-- to expand my chest along with my interest and skill in these poses.

Rocky is a very fine teacher, moving the class gradually and expertly into deeper more expansive chest opening postures. I was really enjoying myself, and about 2/3 of the way through the class, I experienced one of those physically transcendent moments. My chest filled with fluid warmth and the room seemed bathed in sea green light. I felt a smile come to my lips. I knew that I had discovered the joy of backward bending poses. I left the class confident that I had a new relationship to chest expansion and perhaps even to emotional vulnerability.

This confidence glowed all the next day. When I dove into the pool for Masters swim practice, I was thinking about how I might apply chest expansion to swimming. About halfway through the workout, I crashed into another swimmer as she was pushing off the wall. Her head hit me full force in the sternum. The pain was excruciating. Somehow I finished the workout, showered, and drove home. But by then, breathing had become painful. Bending forward was nearly unbearable.

Now almost a week later, the injury is only about 50% improved, and I'm learning about chest expansion from a different point of view. To avoid pain, I have to keep my shoulders back and lead with my heart. Forward bends haven't been fun this past week. Pushing anything away from me (be it a wheelbarrow in the garden or the floor during chaturanga dandasana) is nearly impossible.

And so the metaphor of opening the heart invades my body in a deeply physical way. I wish I had listened more closely to how Rocky explained the Sanskrit word meaning bliss. I suspect it included the pain of my injured sternum as well as that of sea green euphoria.

Transformed

Do you ever have those days when the unexpected seems to transform your point of view?

I had one of those days yesterday. It started at Masters Swim practice when there was a substitute coach at the workout time I usually attend. Her style was totally different from the usual coach. In addition to the workout instructions, she gave very specific techniques to practice. WOW! It felt like the two techniques she suggested transformed my work out--making it more aerobic and powerful.

Then I went on a "Dearma date" with my 16-year-old grandson, Cody. I always let the kids choose what they want to do, and Cody's choices never cease to surprise me. For instance, he wanted to go to Perko's for lunch. This is not a restaurant that I frequent and according to his mom they never go there, so what's the appeal? He likes a particular burger they serve. And I had a Thai chicken salad that was absolutely delicious. The place was cool and not very busy at 2pm when we arrived, so it was a perfectly delightful and, for me, unique lunch spot.

Then we went to see the movie: "The Transformers: The Dark Side of the Moon." What a hoot! The movie is funny and the animation is fabulous. Cody and I shared a large popcorn and laughed and commented liberally as there were very few people in the theater. This is a movie I would not have normally seen, but I have to say I enjoyed all 2 hours and 37 minutes, something I surely didn't anticipate when Cody announced this was what he wanted to do. Another thing I liked was that we sat through the entire run of credits after the movie, something I ALWAYS do but was surprised to learn my grandson liked to do too.

The next unexpected thing was going to the final performance for Vacation Bible School at Chapel in the Pines. The plan was that I'd drop Cody off there so he could do the sound for the performance. I popped into the little chapel to get a Raleigh hug, and he encouraged me to stay for the show, so I did. What a blast! The theme was upbeat summer Caribbean, so there were lots of grass skirts and flowery shirts and plastic fruit. Brent Corson led the singing which was lively and joyous. The highlight of the evening, however, was the closing song. It was a partnered, hand-clapping affair which I did with Raleigh. The short verse was repeated 4 times at a rapidly accelerating pace. Glistening with perspiration, Raleigh and I hand-clapped and sang with joyous abandon.

My Friday was transformed by unexpected pleasures and I'm feeling pretty grateful.

Working with Dearma

This summer, I set a goal to have each of my grandkids come and work for me. I have tons of chores that need to be done, and I like working with someone. They like making money, and I like to think they enjoy spending time with me. I know I love time with them, especially one-on-one time when I get to hear from them without the distractions that accompany many of our encounters.

So I made a list of tasks that I thought were age and ability appropriate and went to work setting times for them to come. Lunch and a treat were part of the deal. Usually I took them to the deli to select what they wanted and then we went to freezer to choose ice cream or popsicles for dessert.

The first to come was Gianna. She helped me trim a 50 foot rosemary hedge. Gianna is methodical and always figures out the practicalities of a task. Based on her evaluation of the project, we used both hedge trimmers and hand held pruners and moved along steadily with her setting the pace.

Next came Clare and Mary Autumn. Three-year-old Clare organized drip system pieces by size, type, and color in the drawers a small parts cabinet. She also helped me plant rotten bananas in my rose garden. She loved that job, especially when the trowel turned up worms. Mary Autumn helped me clean and organize my potting yard cabinet. She cleaned pots, wiped down shelves, and put things back in the best of order. That cabinet has never looked so good.

Leon helped me build a rock retaining wall and a step into the side yard. While eating popsicles after completing the job, we discovered our shared love for bird watching. The kid has an incredible eye for sighting the smallest bird in a tree. We took a bunch of pictures.

Cody worked with Granddaddy to build a retaining wall and two sets of stairs in the side yard. It was hot, hard, dirty work but Cody hung in there and finished long after I had retreated to sitting in the shade. I now have a spot for a fruit tree and berry vine to be planted in the fall.

Taylor and Candice are window washers extraordinaire. Candice worked ahead of Taylor and I cleaning all the window sills and the cruddy tracks where the aluminum windows sit. We came behind washing windows, inside and out. Cindy meanwhile was working on cleaning the screens. This was a 6-hour job and there was not one complaint from these girls and plenty of giggles! And can I just say, Taylor voluntarily cleaned up inside after the job while I was putting things away outside.

Next came Athan who helped me trim the oleander, a monumental job that I have to do every summer after the bloom. High atop a ladder, Athan chatted away about the view and pruning decisions he was making, once commenting on how he was like his dad in his interest in pruning. Yep, this is true. The oleander have never looked so fine as when he finished.

Still to come are Kyle, Aliou, Huck, Nell, and Anna Mae. Also, Candice and I agreed that she is going to come twice. (She was saving for dance camp so she came along for Taylor's job.) I haven't mentioned August because he regularly works in Dearma's yard.

When people find out I have 14 grandkids, the first thing they often say is "How do you afford Christmas?" I must say the gifts I get from these kids far exceed what I give them.

(NOTE: I didn't get pictures of Gianna, Clare, or Mary Autumn and promised Taylor I wouldn't publish a picture of her as she didn't feel prepared for a photo shoot.)

Memory Month

I do believe that the month of May 2011 will go down in history as one of the busiest and most memorable. It was cram-packed with special events and family connections:

May 2- After 11 days of caring for her mom, Cindy came home, worried still but hopeful that her mom was returning to her strong, durable self.
May 3- I worked with Candice & Kyle on their end of the year writing samples and then had a pre-birthday visit with my dear friend, Trish.
May 5- Childcare at the Tippetts while JL went to a training for IEW--one of my longest days ever caring for her brood.
May 6- Grandparents day at Mother Lode Christian School where Taylor and classmates served brunch and I got to see her classroom and meet her teacher, Mrs. Briniger.
May 7- Fundraising pancake breakfast at Applebees for Cody's soccer team. Phone call to Nell to sing the Hooray Birthday song, followed by a trip to Mariposa where we planted veggies for Cindy's mom for Mother's Day.
May 8- Dixon family birthday, celebrating with Sabrina and Sandie, plus Mother's Day calls from my kids.
May 9- August did major yardwork at my place. Fred & Bonnie arrived to spend the night after a doctor visit in Sacramento where Bonnie got an excellent report. Started Masters Swim 101.
May 10- Birthday party at Culley's for me, Nell and John. Pizza party with the whole family!!!!
May 11- Huck's play with grade 1 students at Waldorf.
May 12- The gear shift on Cindy's truck broke and Raleigh was on the scene immediately to make repairs in under 10 minutes.
May 13- Huck's play again, this time with Cindy. Shopping trip to Modesto with Anna Mae (also paid of tax debt!!!)
May 14- Outing with Nell, Mary Autumn, Gianna, and Candice to Columbia (see previous post).
May 15- Buddhist workshop with Nancy Spence.
May 17- Anna Mae's graduation from 8th grade.
May 18- Dokasan with Nancy.
May 19- Open house at the Country School for Athan, Aliou, Leon & Mary Autumn.
May 20- Belated birthday dinner with Becky at Applebees
May 21- Kate Reid concert in Pioneer; fast drive back to Tuolumne County to see the last 20 minutes of Roller Derby. We missed Madam Ovary's 35 point jam :(
May 22- Lunch with Cindy's cousin Bobby and his wife at Diamondback. Anna Mae's confirmation at All Saints.
May 23- August does yardwork at my house.
May 24- Cody helps me spread bark at Culley's.
May 25- Mary Autumn's graduation from kindergarten. Writing group meeting in the evening.
May 26-30 Four day weekend--planting plants, painting door, setting up swamp cooler, watching movies & TV-- basically fun stuff at home :)

Oh, and I can proudly say that I went to Masters Swim 101 faithfully throughout the month and have almost mastered the butterfly stroke. And to top it off, I was selected as the winner of the free coffee at Day-O this morning.

June . . . here I come . . .

All in a Saturday

Can I just say that the following chain of events appeals to my sense of family-centeredness:

At 8am on Saturday morning, Uncle Raleigh met Uncle Michael in Twain Harte so that Cody, Kyle, and Candice could be transported to the Tippetts. Cody was going to work with Uncle Michael while Kyle hung out with Athan, Leon, and Aliou overseen by Aunt Jennie Lou and Clare. Dearma was going to pick up Candice later in the morning for a girl cousin outing.

On the way to Belleview Road, Aunt Andrea called Uncle Michael to say she wanted to go to to the Farmer's Market with Huck and wondered if he could pick up Nell on his way home for a visit at the Tippetts until Dearma arrived to collect the girls for the outing.

At 10:45, Dearma arrived at the Tippetts to get Nell, Mary Autumn, and Candice. She still needed to get Gianna at Little Red School house where she and Anna Mae were painting sets for the school play. Aunt Jennie Lou asked if Dearma could deliver Anna Mae's lunch which she had forgotten to take when she left earlier in the morning.

At 3 o'clock, while the girl cousins were eating ice cream after a picnic, stage ride, panning for gold, and rock climbing (see Facebook photos), Candice mentioned that she had overheard Uncle Raleigh tell Uncle Michael that he would pick her up at the Tippetts, so Dearma texted Aunt Jenny to confirm. After a few text messages and a phone call, Dearma agreed to take Candice to the Tippetts where she would get Kyle and Cody and meet Uncle Raleigh and Aunt Jenny somewhere between Sonora and Jamestown to deliver the children.

As Dearma and the girl cousins drove over Big Hill, a text came in from Aunt Andrea saying Huck had petered out on a bike ride and was laying in the grass at the bottom of Belleview Road. Could we pick up him and his bike?

After stopping for Huck, Dearma dropped off Huck and Nell and then took Mary Autumn and Gianna home where she picked up Kyle and Cody and left to meet Uncle Raleigh, Aunt Jenny, and Taylor at Willow Springs Market.

In my book, this is the gift of family all in a Saturday! (in keeping with Ann Voskamp's notion of 1000 Gifts.

In Training

I hesitate to say that I'm training for a triathlon when I have yet to run a mile nor is my bike in working order, so I'll just say that I'm seriously thinking about doing a triathlon next October.

Watching my daughter-in-law do a sprint triathlon last October instigated this thought. The event was exhilirating, and when I spotted a woman who had the number 63 on her leg, her age category, I began to think about participating in 2011.

I took preliminary steps in December by joining the gym and asking for the book The Slow Fat Triathlete as Christmas gift. Reading the book was motivating. I immediately bought a little blank calendar booklet to create a training guide. Here are the things I've done so far to get my body ready:

1.) To develop core strength, I go to yoga 4-5 times a week. This month I added a pilates class and just recently, I noticed a little indentation in my abs. Might they be the beginning of a 6-pack?
2) To build cardiovascular capacity, I have been going to aerobics classes at the gym 3-4 times a week.
3) Last week, I went to my first spin class. Whoa! That's one tough class. I'm hoping it will prep my for the bicycle which is definitely going to be the most challenging segment for me.
4) I am going to the track once a week where I walk/jogging to remind my body about running. It's eager, but I'm taking it easy. I also read the book Born to Run which really got my mind pointed toward the joy of running and planted some new ideas about shoes, among other things.
5) On Monday, I start Masters 101, a swim refresher course. Actually, I'm on the waiting list for the class, but I intend to show up and beg to get in.

I'm not ready to say I'm doing this yet, but I'm headed toward a triathlon. As soon as I get my bike fixed and go for the first ride, and right after I run one whole mile without stoppping, I will say I'm in training.

Hither and yon

Yesterday, Gianna was reading a story that she wrote, and when she came to a part where her main character looked out the window at the "gleaming snow," she paused and said, "I love the word gleaming." I think she loves the delicious sound of the GL blending with the long sound of E that culminates in the hum of MING.

I can appreciate Gianna's pause to admire a favorite word because I have many words that I love. They are gifts to me. Here are a few:

#54 hither and yon
#55 nimbus
#56 glorious
#57 gurlesque
#58 kettle and mug
#59 aeolian
#60 spurtle and putz
#62 caesura

I could go on and on but let me just add that it's gift
#63 to hear a granddaughter's pause to admire a word.

And another gift is
#64 a lengthy phone conversation with my son's wife about kids, school, books, TV, friends and life.