Newborn

All my life has been intense
Must be a good girl
Must make sense
No flights of fancy to take me away
And then I changed . . .
One day I looked around and saw
A world of wonder
World of awe
With love and passion and art and sound
And then I felt . . .
I peeled off the layers
Shed the skin
Ditched the prayers
Let love in
Felt it down to my very toes
I see it in colors, see how it grows
Put it on canvas
Take a picture
Feel it
Own it
Rock the beat
Taste the nectar
Sharp and sweet
Life takes charge!

Texas Summer

Suffocating heat
Rising in shimmering waves
Leaves wilt and shrivel

First Haiku! (These are tough)

Sleep is a cool well
Into which we drop our brain
To wash cares away

Dammit, another poem!

I can see clearly
If I close my eyes
Let my mind go
Loose the ties
That keep me bound
To the "real" world
I see love
A golden thread
Woven through the universe
Showing the beauty
Of every living thing
Harmony, peace
Fragile thing, though
Easily lost
In the mad tarantella
That is called life
By those who do not see
Logical, rational
Imagination suspended
Power, wealth
I close my eyes
And choose love

A Blurred Line

Do we really know what’s on the other side? Do spirits communicate with the living? I believe so. I think the lines between dimensions, conscious, unconscious and subconscious, are fluid depending on circumstances and perception. An example:

In February 2003 my father put a bullet in his brain. The ripple effect from his violent action resonated through my family. My mother, who was in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s, never noticed that her husband stopped visiting. I grieved. I still do. My husband blamed himself because they’d had a disagreement the last time Dad had been at our house. My 10-year-old daughter appeared to matter-of-factly deal with her grandfather’s death, then catalogued it and moved on. My 7-year-old son was devastated.

Grandpa belonged to Jackson. They played together, shared a bond that linked generation to generation. His death left a hole in Jackson’s universe.

In October 2003 we decided to take a road trip to Florida to visit friends. We rented a van to accommodate our family and a friend and his daughter who were also headed to the massive house party that was gathering on Hallowe’en. The trip was mapped, planned, budgeted, and began.

We left after work, picking up Mark and his quiet teenage daughter Teddy on the way out of Dallas. We intended to spend a night in Shreveport, and then have a hard drive to Panama City Beach in time for Hallowe’en. Mark sheepishly told us that, while he was perfectly delighted to help with the driving, it would be best for all involved if he did not take the wheel while in the state of Louisiana, as the law enforcement officials of that state had long memories and good computers.

The trip to Shreveport was uneventful. We started at twilight and drove for three hours as darkness fell, the children grew quiet, and Mark’s daughter strummed quietly on her guitar.

We spent the night in Shreveport, had a hard day’s drive to Panama City Beach, and a wonderful, relaxing vacation among a group of friends who because of their shared religious experience knew how to live life to the fullest. We returned home relaxed, refreshed, and renewed.

Life went on.

Several months later, over dinner, Jackson suddenly asked: “What happened to that boy?”

“What boy?” we asked, mystified.

“The boy who rode with us to Shreveport,” Jackson replied, slightly astonished that he should need to explain.

Again we asked: “What boy, Jackson? There was Mark and his daughter Teddy and the four of us. That was it. Are you thinking of Teddy?”

“NO, not Teddy,” he insisted firmly. “There was a boy. He had dark hair and dark clothes. He was really nice and he sat next to me all the way to Shreveport and I didn’t see him after that. Where did he go?”

We were stunned into silence. There was no flesh-and-blood live boy in that van. Yet, 7 years later, Jackson is still firmly convinced that he had a friend keep him company on the ride to Shreveport.

Sex and Violence and Springtime

Every spring in Richardson, Texas, a riot of color delights the eye as poppies, bluebonnets, daisies and Indian paintbrushes burst forth in medians, the service road of the Expressway, and the library grounds from seeds sown by the environmentally aware Parks & Recreations Department. Parents dress up their little darlings and pose them among the wildflowers for family portraits.

I was no different. When Jennie was two years old, I dressed her up in a little sundress, drove to the wildflower field near the Richardson Library and took adorable portraits of my curly blond-headed child. Inspired by the thought of matching pictures, when Jackson turned two, I made the pilgrimage to the wildflower field, children in tow.

Jackson has allergies. LOTS of allergies, and it only took five minutes to find out what exactly tripped his histamines.

As I posed him in the wildflowers, I watched him begin to break out in a rash. With each succeeding photo, his skin became redder and bumpier. His cherubic face, instead of dimpling in a smile, wore a pained expression. He started to scratch and twitch and, finally, began to cry. I quickly lifted him out of the offending pollen-makers and took him back to the car.

As a distraction, I decided to take the children to a nearby pond that was home to a great many ducks. We got some stale bread from home and parked at the duck pond. As we exited the car and looked at the vast array of water fowl, I realized with a sinking feeling that spring, in addition to bringing adorable downy ducklings, also rams home the process by which said ducklings arrive: SEX.

The duck pond was full of ducks, most of which in various stages of pursuit and copulation. Nearby a drake sat on top of a duck, enthusiastically pecking the top of her head, which was bloody.

Jennie was aghast. “Mommy, what’s that duck doing to the other duck?”

“They’re mating, honey. That’s how they get little ducks,” I explained, trying to use words that a 4-year-old could understand.

Jennie thought about it for a minute. “Ouch,” she said, somewhat shocked.

I started to explain that sex was a lot more fun (and less bloody) for humans and then decided that was too much information. I hurried the children over to a quiet end of the pond, where a mama duck was paddling around with six fluffy yellow ducklings. We admired the ducklings, fed them some bread, and were delighting in the pastoral scene when a dark shape began to rise from the depths of the pond. Expecting the theme from “Jaws” to begin playing at any moment, we watched, horrified, as a large turtle shot to the surface, grabbed a duckling by the feet, and took it down.

Jennie and Jackson froze, stunned, as the duckling failed to return to the surface. After a long moment of shocked silence, a few fragile air bubbles rose to the top, and the five remaining ducklings and their mother paddled off.

Jennie broke the silence. “Did the turtle eat the duck?” she asked in tones of terror.

I gulped. “Yes,” I said in a small voice.

“WHY???” she demanded.

“Because the turtle was hungry,” I said simply. “Animals eat other animals when they’re hungry, just like we eat hamburgers and chicken.”

At that point, I decided that there had been enough life lessons for one afternoon. We’d run the gamut of sex, violence, survival of the fittest and the itchies all in one glorious spring afternoon, so we retreated to the benign comfort of Blue’s Clues and Kipper in our air-conditioned and pollen free home.

The Tapestry of Life

I'm 54 years old. Lately I've "seen" things differently. At first I was alarmed that this new sense of life meant I was going to die soon (I’m half Greek and have a more-than-slight tendency to add an unneeded note of drama to my ordinary life) but now I have accepted that this is merely another interesting page unfolding for me.

When I was in 10th grade Art Class, I had a wonderful teacher, Mrs. Brown, who once upon a lazy warm day, showed us how to start a picture with a center design: circle, square, star, whatever. Once we established our center, we drew lines or ovals around it. Then we added around the circles and lines, spreading outward until we had filled the page with beautiful, random forms and figures. We colored them in as we pleased, and a gorgeous tapestry or quilt was created. It was really a kind of glorified doodle, but so very much fun and cool and beautiful. It kind of reached out to the universe, had no end, and to me represented . . . endless possibilities.

At this point in my life I feel very aware of that tapestry or quilt. Everything I do each day, every person I meet, is an interaction with the entire earth in a small way. Kind deeds spread outward to affect countless others (if I smile at a clerk, maybe they will smile at their next customer, and so on and so on). The sight of the full moon spreads beauty throughout the town of Murphy and outward to all of Dallas, and even further out, spreading its gentle glow over the earth. The energy I expend at work adds to the energy of the globe as it goes about its business.

I like that. I like feeling that I am a part of something universal. I like looking at the world as potentially good and, if I spread my small form of goodness, my positive energy, it might help cause a chain reaction of positive energy that will actually make a difference.*

If nothing else, I find the world an endlessly fascinating place, full of wonder and new adventures. I hope I always will.


*CAVEAT: This feeling of benign good will in no way mitigates my frequent desire to slap certain politicians and other idiots upside the head when they do or say something totally asinine, bigoted or downright stupid; nor does it abate my earnest and sincere promise to eviscerate anyone who tries to harm my children.

April 4, 1968

I was 12 years old and living in St. Croix, U.S. Virgin Islands. On the island, white residents were the minority. Those of us who lived on the island year-round accepted the fact that we were not the indigenous people. While not tourists, in many ways we did not belong to the island as completely as those whose ancestors were forcibly made a part of the land on which they slaved, weaving their history into that of the remnants of the Carib Indians who greeted Columbus.

It was enlightening for me. I was used to being served last at the local bakery and being treated, however good-naturedly, as not quite equal. At age 12, I accepted what I had and felt right at home. No one was mean, especially to a kid, and for the most part everyone on the island got along.

April 4 changed everything. When Dr. King was killed, long-simmering tensions between black and white exploded with searing intensity. After the news of his death was reported, we started getting phone calls from the local Jehovah’sWitnesses who knew us and were frightened. Dad was off island on business, so Mom and I were alone in the big house on two acres with only three dogs for protection. Granted, one of the dogs was feared island-wide, but this was a fear of violence that even Dede couldn’t handle. One of the Jehovah’s Witnesses who worked at the airport called to say she had heard rumors that there would be a massacre of all the whites on the island that night. Mom and I stayed up and jumped at every little noise.

On the other side of the island in Christiansted, Roger McKibbin, who had moved his family to St. Croix because he thought Armageddon would not be as bad there, either hadn’t heard the news or figured it did not impact him. He took his two daughters, ages 8 and 10, to The Golden Cow for ice cream. Unbeknownst to him, a very angry man was holding court in the ice cream parlor, swearing vengeance for Dr. King. He said he was going to kill the first white man he saw.

Roger walked into The Golden Cow with his daughters. As they went to the counter to order, the man drew a knife, came up behind Roger and slit his throat. Roger bled to death in front of his daughters while the rest of the customers simply watched.

That was the only murder on the island on April 4. The raw violence seemed to shock everyone into common grief and for a while the racial tension eased. But it was never the same again. Innocence had been lost. Easy camaraderie between the races became increasingly strained. Tourists were treated with suspicion instead of welcomed and the Black Panther movement began to take root, culminating in the Fountain Valley Golf Course murders in 1971, a year after we moved. For many years after that, no tourist ship would stop at St. Croix and the economy suffered accordingly. I don’t know if it’s ever really recovered.

Deacon Brown

It's spring in Dallas, and Deacon Brown is back on the street. I don't know where he goes in winter, but once the weather gets unsupportably cold, he disappears for a few months, perhaps to a homeless shelter or other place of refuge.

Deacon Brown is a tall African American man of indeterminate age, with a ready smile that shows the ravages of time, a handful of homemade religious tracts, and an incurably cheerful demeanor. He greets everyone, hands out a tract and, of course, asks for a donation. His cheerfulness is contagious and usually prompts me to find spare change, or buy him food from the nearby pharmacy.

He's a little thinner this year, and there's a hint of bewilderment in his eyes that I haven't seen before. But he greeted me with enthusiasm even though I had no cash and we exchanged our usual greetings. I wonder about his background, how he came to be where he is, and I accept that I will probably never know. However, he is one homeless person who is not just a face on the street, alone and forgotten. He is a friend.

Flowers

two buds on the same vine
reaching for the sky together
wind, rain, snow may fall
no matter . . .
strength comes from the common stem
for one at least . . .
the healing sun caresses the flowers
one opens
reaching out to embrace the golden day
the other clutches tighter into its folded petals
too hot
it will hurt
open petals
you've changed