My Seat on the Beach

Nikki Giovanni: Nikki-Rosa and Ego-tripping

2012-02-01T20:41:00.000-08:00

I just found out that Nikki Giovanni will be the keynote speaker at tomorrow's Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Convocation in Santa Cruz. Once again, I will miss seeing a mentor-in-my-head, to borrow a phrase from talk show host, Wendy Williams. Last year, Maya Angelou was in town to celebrate National Women's History month and I missed her, too, because I teach several nights a week.

I walk in the footsteps of these two women, both of whom are world renowned poets, writer, educators, and social activists: I've loved them both since my teens. Their powerful way with words critically shaped my future dreams.

Nikki's poetry exploded into my life in the early '70s with the release of the album Truth Is On Its Way: Nikki Giovanni and the New York Community Choir. I get chills and goose bumps just thinking about Nikki reciting her poetry to the back drop of the magnificent young voices singing some of my favorite gospel music.

In the mid-sixties, a handful of black students from my town were selected to integrate private schools in the state. You can believe me when I tell you, we weren't studying Nikki Giovanni in our English classes. Or, perhaps, I should only speak for myself. I was hungry to study black women writers, yet at the girls school I attended, they did not appear on my required reading lists. (The only piece written by a black author ever formally assigned was Manchild in the Promised Land by Claude Brown. If I recall correctly, my eighth grade English teacher had gone to school with him.)

I was on my own to find the literary influences that would speak to my soul.

In my senior year of high school, two of us nerdy black private school kids, Richard Harris and myself, drove into the New York City to hear Nikki and the choir perform at Lincoln Center.

She was, and still is, a tiny woman with a searing presence. She was like a meteor, bright and hot. Here, let me give you a taste.

Nikki-Rosa

Ego-tripping

Time for Review

2012-01-16T13:32:00.000-08:00

If we are to go forward, we must go back and rediscover those precious values - that all reality hinges on moral foundations and that all reality has spiritual control.--Martin Luther King

What Is This???

2012-01-09T08:12:00.000-08:00

Danielle discovers Buddy's nose.

The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing. One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. --Albert Einstein

12 Communication Resolutions for the New Year

2012-01-01T15:17:00.000-08:00

Alone, all alone,
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
-- Maya Angelou

A large percent of our New Year's resolutions revolve around improving physical health: "This year I will lose weight." "I'm finally going to stop smoking." "Tomorrow, I am going to join a health club and exercise three times a week." These are all admirable goals, but for a moment, I would like to focus on the health of our interpersonal relationships.

For those of you who intend to improve your relationships with loved ones, may I offer twelve specific communication goals. (Try one a week or one a month.)

1. Be the first to listen. Listen with interest, listen without interrupting, listen without thinking about how you would like to respond. Listen with the purpose of gaining greater insight into your loved one.

2. Practice the skill of validation. This is one verbal skill connected to effective listening. It entails acknowledging another's feelings without judgment. "I can hear you are disappointed with me." "I feel your sadness." "I see you are frustrated with your boss."

3. Give your undivided attention to the person with whom you are communicating. This is one of the greatest gifts you can give. This year, declare that multitasking is out and committed, focused attention is in when it comes to your relationships. Avoid trying to do other things when you are listening and talking with a significant other, especially your children.

4. Own your own feelings rather than blame others for what you feel. It sounds like this: "I feel angry when..." versus "You make me feel..." An accurate expression of an emotion just takes three words: "I feel
(name the feeling.) One reason we have difficulty identifying our emotions is because we have a limited feeling vocabulary. Maybe this is your year to expand yours. Additionally, it is sad to say that many of us would rather attack, blame, and guilt-trip than take responsibility for our own emotions.

5. Rather than label others, factually describe behavior instead. Here is an example: Instead of labeling your partner as "cheap," you might say: "I noticed the last three times we went out to dinner, I paid the tab. I would appreciate it if you would pay for dinner when we go out on Friday."

6. When you find the volume of your voice is rising and your rate of speech is increasing, pause, slow down, and whisper. Accept no excuses. "I can't help myself. That's just what happens when I get upset," is a way of rationalizing impolite behavior. Self-control is a virtue.

7. Replace the word "should" with the phrase "I would like," or "I could." "You should get home earlier in the evening" becomes "I would like you to come home earlier in the evening." "I should have done better on my math test," becomes "I could have done better."

8. Stop commanding and ordering; rather, make requests. Do you know what distinguishes an order from any other type of statement? When you start a sentence with a verb, you are ordering. "Stop pouncing on me the minute I walk into the house" can become "When I arrive home from work, I need some quiet time to decompress. Can you give me 15-minutes of alone time before you start telling me about your day?"

9. Daily express appreciation and gratitude to those with whom you share your life. Being polite and courteous goes a long way in valuing and honoring others. "I appreciate that you did the grocery shopping today." "Thanks, Honey, for doing the dishes (bathing the baby, buying take-out for dinner.)"

10. Celebrate! No matter what mood you are in, try your best to celebrate the accomplishments and joys of your loved ones.

And, now: Buddy's Bonus Resolutions

11. Always warn your significant other when you are about to "poot" in public. Does this need further explanation?

12. Take a chance on love. Follow your heart.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Happy Thanksgiving!

2011-11-24T21:57:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving, my beloved readers. Today, I am thankful to Johnson Oatman, Jr. who penned the song below, "Count Your Blessings," based on 1Thessalonians 5:18. I learned this song early in my life and remember liking its bright tune and optimistic lyrics.

Unfortunately, during life's bumps and bruises, I adopted the

view that optimists were naive, at best; but more likely...just plain deluded. Consequently, I became a realist: one who deals with facts and concrete reality, and I pshawed the hopeful ones, the ones who "walked by faith, not by sight."

Five years ago, when I started paying alimony to my former husband, this lively tune began to sing itself to me.

At that time I was worried that the financial obligation of alimony would send my life into turmoil.

I was angry and resentful that not only did I have to pay alimony for the next fours years but I also had to give my former partner half of my retirement savings. (California is a communal property state.)

Chaz was disabled and had not worked for five years; so, in essence, he didn't have anything to split. In the material sense, I was being screwed...or so I thought.

I was torn by the battle within. I felt betrayed, wounded, and angry. And I was righteously indignant. How dare he leave ME...AND take half of my money?

One day as I was fuming, the lyrics of that old Vacation Bible School song, "Count Your Blessings" came to mind:

When upon life’s billows you are tempest-tossed,
When you are discouraged, thinking all is lost,
Count your many blessings, name them one by one,
And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.
- Refrain:
  Count your blessings, name them one by one,
  Count your blessings, see what God hath done!
  Count your blessings, name them one by one,
  *Count your many blessings, see what God hath done.
  [*And it will surprise you what the Lord hath done.]
Are you ever burdened with a load of care?
Does the cross seem heavy you are called to bear?
Count your many blessings, every doubt will fly,
And you will keep singing as the days go by.
When you look at others with their lands and gold,
Think that Christ has promised you His wealth untold;
Count your many blessings—wealth can never buy
Your reward in heaven, nor your home on high.
So, amid the conflict whether great or small,
Do not be discouraged, God is over all;
Count your many blessings, angels will attend,
Help and comfort give you to your journey’s end.

* Alternate text

When the song "reappeared," I decided to latch on to it every time I felt a moment of anger, betrayal, doubt, fear, or resentment. I woke up counting my blessings, my mental screen saver throughout the day was set on "Count Your Blessings," and I went to sleep counting my blessings. Yes, this required discipline.

In about 18 months, I was able to not only write those checks without debilitating emotions, I was able to write them with faith and peace.

During the past five years, I have certainly learned that my "God will supply." I paid off my debts, even while paying the alimony, and this month I wrote the last check to Chaz. In that time, I also learned that, with God's help, I could actually manage my mind, rather than have my mind manage me. And, today, that's the blessing for which I am most grateful.

Summer Memories--Part Deux

2011-10-19T16:18:00.000-07:00

Several days after MandM's anniversary gathering, Buddy's sister, Lynda, and their Mom came to town to celebrate his birthday.

We picked them up at Newark Airport and swept them away to Parsippany.

Family and friends gathered to celebrate the wonderfulness of our Buddy. These are Buddy's best friends, Joe and Janet Ciccone.

And this is Nicole McManus, Joe and Janet's daughter, with her husband, Jeff, and their son, Louie. Nicole is Buddy's goddaughter, and her birthday is the day after his.

The next day, we raced to Philly (to beat Hurricane Irene) so Mom Riz could meet her great granddaughter. Here she is with Danielle, her dad Justin, and his dad Buddy. (Mommy Desi was not home when we took this photograph.)

The entire Rizzio family has a great sense of humor, and here, Lynda and Danielle share a laugh. They had just met!

Don't expect Mush and Slush to be in Cali this Christmas. We plan to be in Philly with the Baba.

Summer Memories

2011-10-01T19:30:00.000-07:00

Its October first. Where did September go? How about August for that matter? I'm still wading through pictures from the latter part of the summer.

First, I moved in the beginning of August. Buddy and my younger brother, John Paul, came out to help.They are the most caring and protective men in my life.

Next, both my sister Tonia and I flew from California to New Jersey to celebrate my parents' 62 wedding anniversary. Look at them.

Aren't they cute? They are 87 years old and proud of it.

Friends and family came from all around to pay tribute. Including:

My cousins Tia,
Lorraine, and Tawanda.

My cousin Randy and Buddy.

Moi, Richard Harris and Sherry Davis Ruffin (We go way back!)

Richard, Buddy, and Glenda Blackwell.

Stay tuned. Next week: photos of Buddy's birthday, and Mom Riz's visit with her first great grandchild.

The Big Cosmic Push

2011-07-04T23:10:00.000-07:00

Firecrackers are popping, the dogs in the neighborhood are howling, and I'm packing books. Why? Because I've just received the Big Cosmic Push (BCP) and I'm moving in three weeks!

During the Spring, I had been thinking: "Hmm. I finish paying alimony to Chaz at the end of this year, how will I now use that money? (Answer: Restoring the portion of my pension he took when he left.)

But more importantly, how will I celebrate the completion of this most unpleasant financial obligation? I contemplated a vacation. Nah. Juvederm injections? Lol. A silent retreat? Not gonna happen! Nothing I considered seemed meaningful enough, so I placed the thought in my inner meditation room and went about my business.

In early June, I returned to the East Coast Love Nest for two weeks to hang out with Buddy and to meet The Baby Danielle. I had a wonderful, loving time. Never checked my home phone for messages while I was away. (I don't rely heavily on my cell phone because I don't like being available 24/7.)

When I arrived back home, there was a message stating that the owners of the condo in which I lived planned to return to Santa Cruz and wanted to move back in their home. (A sign of the economic times.) I had six weeks to find a new place.

I call this phenomenon the Big Cosmic Push. You're moving through life fairly smoothly, finding some joy in every day, tolerating the irritations, when WHAM! Life punches you in the face "outta nowhere." That's what happened five years ago when Chaz announced, eight weeks after having back surgery, that he no longer wanted to be married and would be leaving in three days. I remember I felt like I had been hit by a car going 60 miles-an-hour. For months, I felt like I was moving zombie-like through big wads of wet gauze, unable to see or feel even an inch ahead of me.

Then one day, I was aimlessly flipping through channels, when I stopped on a rerun of ER. Two doctors were sitting on a bench outside of the hospital. They were discussing one doctor's problem when her companion turned to her and said: "What if this didn't happen to you? What if it happened for you?"

That's an enlightening way of re-framing things. It presents the option of feeling victimized by life or choosing to acknowledge there might be an omniscient being--the big cosmic pusher--working on your behalf. I have since tried to practice that perspective in all of my affairs--even when I couldn't see up ahead.

This time around, I recognized the BCP quickly. Having to uproot and move to a new space, well, its happening for me, not to me. And it is the kind of demarcation I need as a sign post for this major transition. I'm actually moving from the place I had once inhabited with Chaz. Its about time.

So, as the final firecrackers send their colorful sparks into the sky, I'm celebrating the next phase of my life!
On this 4th of July, I am tempted to say: "Free at last, free at last."

New Jersey Update

2011-06-21T08:57:00.000-07:00

I recently spent two great, action-packed weeks back east with Buddy, family, and friends.

* We visited Danielle, Desi, and Justin, in Philly.

* I had a three-hour dinner with my friend Audrey whom I have not seen in 20 years. (Thank you Facebook.)
* Dined with Father Gus in Philadelphia.
* I, unfortunately, did not visit with as many friends as I wanted to. Next time!

* My brother John and I attended a memorial for our former family doctor, role model, mentor, friend, and confidant, Dr. George S. Lassiter. It was a fortuitous coincidence that I was home at the same time as Georgie's service. His children, Naina, Nyan, and Milan, each in their way, paid special tribute to their Dad. It was an inspiring event.

* We celebrated an early Father's Day with my Mom and Dad by going out to dinner and drinking lots of sangria. That same evening my brother, John, and his wife, Fran, joined us to celebrate their third wedding anniversary.

* I had a nice breakfast outing with my older bother, Dutch. (Photo of John, Moi, and Dutch during Christmas three years ago.)

* I also fell twice while trying to do an O.J. sprint through the San Francisco Airport! Laptop, carry-on bag, and bag-to-be checked flew out of my tenuous grasp. I was certain there was a Candid Camera crew not only following behind me, but also placing invisible obstacles in front of me to cause my falls, which they then joyously caught on camera.This fibromite must find a better way to fly. Any suggestions?

* The cherry on the top? Once again ensconced in my cozy home back in Santa Cruz, I listened to my phone messages and casually opened mail on Saturday morning. Lo and behold, while I was away, I received 60-day notice that I must move because the owners of the condo want to return to Santa Cruz and move back in.

* Of course, by the time I actually received the notice, it really was a 50-day notice.

* Summer school started yesterday. I am teaching two four-week courses: 1) Interpersonal Communication and 2) Oral Communication.

So, my friends, keep me in your prayers as I traverse the next leg of my adventurous marathon of a life!

YaYa Meets Danielle

2011-06-13T18:29:00.000-07:00

Yes, I've been turned to slush. Just call Buddy and me Mush and Slush!

If one feels the need of something grand, something infinite, something that makes one feel aware of God, one need not go far to find it. I think that I see something deeper, more infinite, more eternal than the ocean in the expression of the eyes of a little baby when it wakes in the morning and coos or laughs because it sees the sun shining on its cradle.-- Vincent van Gogh

So Many Books, Too Little Summer

2011-05-30T16:24:00.000-07:00

Happy Memorial Day. The Spring semester has just ended and I have finished the odious job of assigning final grades.

Now for one of my greatest pleasures...the creation of my summer reading list. Every Memorial Day, I gather all the index cards, bookmarks, Post-Its, and notebooks on which I have recorded book titles, and devise my reading list for the summer.

This year, I'm doing it in a rush because I'm also packing to return to Buddy for several weeks before summer school begins. So here, in no particular order, is my Summer 2011 list:

1. The Help                                               Kathryn Stockett
2. The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks      Rebecaa Skloot
3. Pope Joan: A Novel                                  Donna Woolfolk Cross
4. Water for Elephants                                  Sara Gruen
5. Reading Lolita in Tehran                          Azar Nafisi
6. No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency              Alexander McCall Smith
7. Of Thee I Sing: A Letter
           to My Daughters                                Barack Obama
8. Mother Theresa: Come Be My Light      Mother Theresa
9. My Freshman Year: What a Professor
           Learned by Becoming a Student       Rebekah Nathan
10. The Particular Sadness
           of Lemon Cake                                 Aimee Bender
11. The Twelve Steps of Forgiveness          Paul Ferrini
12. Change Your Brain,
            Change Your Life                           Daniel G. Amen
13. The Happiness Project                         Gretchen Rubin
14. Wherever You Go, There You Are      John Kabat-Zinn
15. God Is Not a Christian                       Desmond TuTu

I'd like to know what you are planning to read
this summer.

1) Click on the Comment section of this blog and
     send me your reading list.

2) Email me your reading list at:
    YaYa@myseatonthebeach.com

3) Send your reading list to me at YaYa
    Bowman's Facebook page.

I would love to publish your submissions
throughout the summer.

Mush and Slush

2011-05-23T17:39:00.000-07:00

.
.
Meet Danielle Marie Rizzio, Buddy's first grandchild, our first granddaughter. (Desi is her Mom; Justin is her Dad.)

She has turned Buddy to mush. Mush, I tell 'ya!

He is enamored with every girgle, every burb,
every hiccup, every passing of gas.
He is agog with every toenail, fingernail,
and every tiny eyelash.

He reports her kneecaps are smaller than his thumb, her diapers, smaller than his hand.

Look at those eyes. Look at her hair. I fully expect to be reduced to slush when I meet her in 12 days.

Hey, maybe she will grow up to call us, her Rizzio grandparents, Mush and Slush!

Twilight

2011-05-16T22:48:00.000-07:00

Its that time of day when the sun has descended below the horizon, but the sky is still reflecting light; the transitional period of day, sung about in the first stanza of the children's poem/prayer/song by Sabine Baring-Gould:

"Now the day is over,
Night is drawing nigh,
Shadows of the evening
Steal across the sky."

I have just finished reading my quota of students' research papers for the day; my brain is fried. Its time
to consider what I will have for dinner but I can't think straight. Little whimpers dribble from my lips.
FuBu jumps in my lap, ever ready for some petting. Now that is something I can do: its automatic,
takes very little thought, while it provides a quick payoff. Our breathe slows down into deep inhales,
slow exhales. FuBu begins to purr, and I can feel my head, neck, and shoulder muscles begin to relax.

The breeze from the afternoon has turned into twilight wind. The leaves on the eucalyptus trees are
rapidly twisting, or perhaps they're doing the boogaloo! But you should hear the trees. They creak.
Yes. They sound like the loose floor board in Grandma's attic. And they moan just like that
missing "uncle" your childhood active imagination believed lived locked in a secret closet
on Granny's top floor.

Its going to rain, I can smell the ocean, and the seagulls are circling and squawking overhead.
FuBu and I are happy to be in the house, safe and warm. As I listen to her contented purr,
I am reminded of the twilight time of my childhood. It was the time of day I felt most unsafe,
unprotected. You might say I lived in a constant state of fear.

My family lived in a too tight apartment over my father's funeral home. In the basement was my
mother's laundry room, where the household freezer resided, my father's workshop, where he made
cabinetry in his spare time, the embalming room where he made his living, preparing
the dearly departed for their final stage of departure, and our playroom, right next to the room
where my Dad drained blood from corpses and replaced it with embalming fluid.

My little sisters and I dreaded twilight. As the sun began to go down, and my mother began to prepare
the evening's meal, she would ask one of us politely to go downstairs to the freezer and retrieve packages
of frozen vegetables. I can hear the sing-songy voice, even now: "YaYa, would you like to go downstairs and
get some spinach for dinner?"

"No, Ma, I wouldn't." (Thought it, never said it.) So, I would begrudgingly walk down the front stairs,
into my Dad's office, where I would pause, sit on the couch and talk to myself. "There is nothing to fear,
you can do this." I would take a big breath, hold it, and run past the dead person laying "in rest" in a casket
in the very next room, open the door to the basement, race down the stairs, past the embalming room,
where I could hear the pump extracting bodily fluids, race to the freezer, grab the first four packages of frozen
vegetables I could put my hands on, hope they were all the same vegetables, and retrace my steps
back up the stairs.

There I would pause again, take another deep breath, pray that I could sneak safely past the dead person,
most often someone I knew, and race back up the stairs to the kitchen. If I mistakingly picked up
two packages of frozen spinach and two packages of frozen string beans, I would have to
descend those stairs again and rectify the problem.

Yes, twilight is an eery time of day for me, even now. So when I feel very anxious about it,
I hum this children's hynm.

Ladies and Gentlemen: Our President of the United States

2011-05-02T21:07:00.000-07:00

"And tonight, let us think back to the sense of unity that prevailed on 9/11. I know that it has, at times, frayed. Yet today’s achievement is a testament to the greatness of our country and the determination of the American people.
The cause of securing our country is not complete. But tonight, we are once again reminded that America can do whatever we set our mind to. That is the story of our history, whether it’s the pursuit of prosperity for our people, or the struggle for equality for all our citizens; our commitment to stand up for our values abroad, and our sacrifices to make the world a safer place.
Let us remember that we can do these things not just because of wealth or power, but because of who we are: one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
Thank you. May God bless you. And may God bless the United States of America."

--The end of President Barack Obama's announcement of Osama bin Laden's death, May 1, 2011

I'm on My Way Home from Spring Break; Will Blog Next Week

2011-04-25T08:01:00.000-07:00

Spring Fever Has Struck Again

2011-04-18T16:46:00.000-07:00

Spring has sprung and our Spring Break started rather late in the season. By the end of last week, students and faculty alike were eager for rest and relaxation. Many of my students agreed with Robin Williams: "Spring is nature's way of saying, 'Let's party!'" They are off to Mexico to do just that.

Me? I've returned to the East Coast Love Nest to spend my vacation with Buddy. Ten days of rest and rejuvenation. I arrived just in time to catch the blooming of the cherry blossoms right outside of our living room window. I am reminded of this sentiment expressed by Bern Williams: "The day the Lord created hope was probably the same day he created Spring."

A Sunset Shapes My Mindset

2011-04-11T19:05:00.000-07:00

Sunset at Twin Lakes Beach, Santa Cruz, CA

One of the most satisfying experiences I know is fully to appreciate an individual in the same way I appreciate a sunset. When I look at a sunset...I don't find myself saying, 'Soften the orange a little more on the right hand corner, and put a bit more purple along the base, and use a little more pink in the cloud color...' I don't try to control a sunset. I watch it with awe as it unfolds.

-Carl R. Rogers
Experiences in Communication

Santa Snooze

2011-04-04T20:35:00.000-07:00

This is one of my neighborhood beaches, along East Cliff Drive, Santa Cruz.

"One learns first of all in beach living the art of shedding; how little one can get along with, not how much."

- Anne Morrow Lindbergh

When Buddy, an edgy East Coaster, started spending winters in Santa Cruz with me, daily he would comment on the slow drivers and the smiley people. "Everybody moves in slow motion," he complained, "like they're in a trance." He started calling my town "Santa Coma."

When I return back east to spend most of the summer with him, I quickly become stressed by the speed racers on the New Jersey Turnpike, the Garden State Parkway, and other highways. I long to hear the ocean from our bedroom window in Parsippany, like we do in our West Coast Love Nest. (Yep, that's what we call it.)

As far as adjusting to a different pace of life goes, we both experience culture shock when we are together on opposite coasts. This we do for love!

But on days like today, when the sky is cloudless and perfectly blue,
the ocean mirrors the heaven,
I leave my Santa Cruz home
with just my keys,
a notepad, pen,
and a sweat shirt.

I'm drawn to the ocean,
a 10 minutes trance walk,
and I drop into the warm, sandy bosom
and nap.

On days like this, I am grateful for the beach life and its valuable lessons about shedding.

This afternoon, I let go of speed, stress, and worry;
traded them in for awe, deceleration, and trust.

Now, I am ready to rename my town Santa Snooze, and I mean that in the best possible way.

Hey, FuBu. She Likes It.

2011-03-28T12:11:00.000-07:00

They may as well have called the sun a ball of flaming joy.--Terri Guillemets

I don't know who likes the warmth of the sun more: me or FuBu. On mornings when I write, I watch FuBu follow the sun patches in our living room and dining room. Wherever the sun splashes onto the carpet, you will find a zonked out black cat. She follows the light from mid-morning to early afternoon and I never hear her chastise herself.

She doesn't call herself lazy or unmotivated. She doesn't "should" on herself: "I know I should be downstairs, pouncing on the down comforter and chasing the escaping feathers." No. She is purrfectly content basking in the sun. I once read "Sunshine is the best Prozac." FuBu is a witness!

When I bought a long sought-after reading chair last Fall, I situated it right in line with the early morning rays. This is where I sit to do my neck stretches, write in my journal, drink coffee, and watch FuBu. Here, I listen to the birds, clear the cobwebs from my brain, scan my body, and assess my energy so I can plan my day accordingly.

As daylight savings time rolled around, I became grumpy and lethargic. All I wanted to do was eat and sleep. FuBu sought comfort by the heating vents and I was sliding under the comforter earlier and earlier in the evening.

"I was born to hibernate," I would tell Buddy, who had started calling me Cubby Bear and bringing trays of food to the bed.

By mid-November, Buddy started dropping hints about one particular present he had purchased for Christmas. "You're going to like it," he sang. "Its going to make you happy." (Emphasis on the happy.)

"Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

"I'm not telling."

By Christmas morning, Buddy couldn't wait to place a big box in my lap. As I unwrapped it, I saw the word "Happy" and Buddy began jumping around singing: "A Happy Light makes a happy life."

He had bought a full-spectrum HappyLight panel by Verilux. Full-spectrum lights simulate healthy, natural light and signal your body's hormones to improve mood and fight fatigue. Bright light therapy is used to treat Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) and is useful in treating fibromyalgia. It can help to reduce muscle pains, insomnia, fatigue, and mood disorders and depression.

(I am in no way a medical professional. If you want more information about this product, go to www.verilux.com)

I can tell you this: My HappyLight has been a lifesaver for me this month. We have had approximately 21 days of rain in March. That's Seattle proportion! Many-a-morning, it was the promise of 10,000 lux that enticed me out of bed in time to stretch and write in my reading chair. Now I have a window to the right of me and the HappyLight to the left of me. And where is FuBu? Spread out her full length on the arm of the chair, right in front of the light. Sunbathing. I don't know who enjoys the HappyLight more: me or FuBu.

Ah, Sweet Slumber, Where Art Thou?

2011-03-21T20:46:00.000-07:00

The last time I remember having a peaceful sleep...I was a baby. (No, this isn't my baby picture. Isn't she adorable? Doesn't she look like she is enjoying her repose?)

This is my sleep most nights... a crossed-eyed-frantic-hyperventilating-purple-people-eater!

I am tired, but not sleepy. I am achy. I flip and flop for an hour before I remember I stand a better chance of stilling myself if I lie on my back.

I am on my back.
I'm wide awake...but I'm tired.

I'm thinking about blog pieces I would like to write.
I reach for a magic marker and piece of paper, both of which are in the bed just for this purpose; catching an idea in the dark. (Remember Buddy is in New Jersey because if he were here with me in Santa Cruz, there wouldn't be any pens, crayons, notebooks, magazines, books, index cards, crystals, tarot cards, massages pillows and pokers in the bed.)

I'm looking up into the darkness, wishing I had some neon stars and planets on the ceiling. I'm wondering if anyone has done a CD called Lullabies for Insomniacs. Now, there's a good idea.

Midterms. Tomorrow four of my classes are taking midterms. I hope they do well. So far it has been a great semester. Thank you, God/dess.

I'm revising in my head a story I plan to give to my writing coach this week. If she accepts it, I will participate in an evening of good writing, good food, and great camaraderie where Laura's students read their work.

All the muscles in my neck, shoulders, and back are screaming. I am trying to practice deep breathing.Inhale deeply, exhale slowly.

Fifteen pounds of FuBu just landed on my chest! When did she get so heavy?

I pet her, she purrs and finds an opening to burrow under the covers. She nuzzles in the curve of my body and puts a paw on my arm as if to say: "There, go to sleep, now."

I'm tired...I'm dozing...I'm failing asleep. Ahhh....

I think I am dreaming; yet, I'm aware that I'm aware that I am dreaming. In fact, I think I am talking to my dream. I'm aware that I am dreaming the same scene over and over again. I'm aware that I am tired, yet not asleep, but dreaming, but not quite awake but I feel every ache...ALL NIGHT, from 10:30 pm--5:30 am.

And finally, I drop into sleep...no more straddling the line between two worlds, and I sleep to 9:30 am.

I'm thankful for the four hours, even if I am fatigued.

This, my friends, is the nocturnal plight of many fibromites. I have read a range of 40-96% of fibromyalgia sufferers experience sleep disturbances. There are typically three types of insomnia: trouble falling asleep, trouble sleeping, and trouble staying asleep; some people, like myself, experience all three. Too little sleep causes impaired memory and thought processes (fibro fog), depression, decreased immune response, and increased pain perception.

Everyday that we get up, no matter how slowly and fuzzy-brained, and TCB (take care of business), is a day we feel like fibro warriors.

By the way, here is one of my favorite lullabies,sung by little angels. (Found it on YouTube.)

Tsunami Hits Santa Cruz: YaYa Seeks Higher Ground

2011-03-14T20:54:00.000-07:00

Many Santa Cruzans didn't know about the magnitude 8.9 earthquake that hit Japan early Friday morning and its subsequent tsunami until the local news came on at 6:00 am. Some were startled to hear that a tsunami warning was in effect for our beach town. The waves were expected to hit between 7:30 and 8:00 am.

I suspect that I was not the only unaware Santa Cruz resident who was tossing and turning at 12:30 am that night, unable to find the part of the mattress that would receive and soothe her aching body. My mind was racing, my body was unsettled, and FuBu, too, was wide awake and jumping on and off the bed. We had no idea what was brewing.

Around 1:30 am when I was about to give up on sleep and watch some late-night re-runs, hopefully of Bones, Monk, or Who's the Boss, my phone rang. It was a fellow insomniac in San Jose calling to tell me to turn on the television. There we saw the explosions, fires and destruction caused by the quake; people ducking and dodging and screaming. I started having heart palpitations as I remembered the 1989 7.1 magnitude Loma Prieta earthquake that ripped apart towns in the Bay Area and Central Coast, including Santa Cruz.

My panic came a calling as we watched the ocean water flow like lava through Japan, knocking over buildings like they were Legos and ripping up cars and carrying them along as if they were loose pebbles.

We could only find news coverage on CNN and the Weather Channel. All we knew was the tsunami had created such rocking and rolling in the deep blue that California was expected to feel its affects within five hours. The size of the expected waves only the local newscasters would report four to five hours later!

What was I going to do in the meantime? Of course, by now I was imagining Katrina victims waving white sheets from the top floors of their homes, people in long lines trying to evacuate the city, overcrowded armories with children crying for their families. In my mind's eye, I saw myself getting trampled in the mass

exodus from Santa Cruz.

You may call me dramatic. I called it ESP (extrasensory perception.) I live a mile from the ocean. I didn't have enough understanding to predict the height or the reach that the tsunami waves would have in my community. My gut told me to make a plan, now!

I called Buddy, who is currently in New Jersey, and together we decided I should head for a local hotel that is at a higher elevation. "Don't wait...gather your medicine...books...magazines...papers to grade....laptop...and, oh yeah, clothes...and go now. Better be safe than sorry," my dear heart warned.

At 6:00 am, I was checking into the Chaminade as my town was awakening and hearing about the impending waves. You could have set your watch to the arrival of the first surge. The sea receded by about100 yards and rushed back in several times throughout the morning. The town warned residents near the coast to evacuate, too late, if you ask me.

The harbor close to my home received the worst damage. The boats there tossed and turned like rubber duckies in a child's bath. Eighteen boats sank and at least another 100 boats sustained damage, including cracked hulls, broken masts and rudders. Docks broke apart and big cement clumps floated about marring vessels.

By the time I'd checked into my room and watched the first local news reports, I had been awake for more than 24 hours. And while I was fluffing my pillows praying that I might finally fall asleep, daredevil surfers had paddled out to sea to catch some waves. That's so-o-o-o Santa Cruz.

My Seat on the Bed

2011-03-07T16:16:00.000-08:00

There are days, like today, when I write My Seat on the Beach from my seat on the bed. It is what I call a fibromyalgia smack-down day. I don't know what brought it on. I slept well; nonetheless, I woke up with burning pain throughout my neck, shoulders, back, hips, gluts, and legs. An army must have marched over me during the night...several times. (Or it could have been FuBu.)

I know I need to be still today. When fibro speaks, YaYa has learned to listen...with reverence. The price of inattention is too steep: days of pain, days of insomnia, days of poor coordination, confused thinking, and memory lapses. Even if I rest today, there is no guarantee I will be better able to function tomorrow. But I can guarantee if I ignore my body and push through, I will feel worse...both physically and emotionally tomorrow.

How do I keep myself still and let my body and soul rest? Let me tell you about the view from my seat on the bed. It keeps me thankful despite my discomfort:

I live on the edge of a eucalyptus grove in a condo with a reverse floor plan; that means, my bedroom is downstairs (second floor level) and my living room is upstairs (third floor level). My bed faces the balcony window which faces the trees. Its like living in a tree house, only warmer.

Its very breezy today and the eucalyptus trees are swaying with the sensuousness of my friend Salle as she hulas. The sun shines through the grove highlighting different branches and spaces between the trees as it arches across the sky.

Earlier this morning, I watched squirrels chase each other up, down, and around the thick trunks of the tree in front of me. Someone once told me when you see squirrels chasing each other up and down, the chaser is probably marking his territory for the chasee. However, if they are going around and around, it means the female is leaving her scent to help the male determine if she is fertile. No, I have never been privy to what happens at the end of the chase! But sometimes, one will land on the balcony and eat some of the seeds that have fallen out of the bird feeder.

Let me tell you about the birds because I am aware of them before I even open my eyes. I know Spring has arrived when the grove begins to sound like a jungle again. The call and response of my feathered friends creates a symphony that wakes me up and delights me. Then the squirrels begin their chatter, and before I know it, FuBu is running back and forth on the bed, making her "ack, ack, ack, ack" noise at the commotion outside.

There is a tree right outside the window to the left of my bed. As that tree regrows it leaves, it will soon be dancing from the sparrows singing in its hair. But for today, just one sparrow sits in the crook of two branches and sings for FuBu and me.

It is the wonder of nature that allows my spirit to rest when my brain is egging me on to get up and take care of business. Its the birds and the trees, the sun and the squirrels that remind me of this scripture: "Be still and know that I am God." (Psalms 46:10.) Before I know it, I am humming the song, "His Eye is on the Sparrow."

And because I am sitting in my seat on the bed, with my laptop, I visit You Tube and find the rendition of the song, sung in the movie: Sister Act 2, by Tanya Blount and Lauryn Hill. (Enjoy and be blessed!)

Amen...and Amen.

National Women's History Month: Maya Angelou Is Coming to Santa Cruz

2011-02-28T17:32:00.000-08:00

Here is my fantasy: Someone has invited me to dine with Maya Angelou before she speaks here on Friday evening, March 18. Little 'Ole Me is going to share a meal with a national treasure and one of the great voices of contemporary literature. She is a poet, educator, historian, best-selling author, actress, playwright, civil-rights activist, producer and director. After having a delightful meal where she has regaled her guests with stories of her travels, I ask if I can tell a story about how one of her early poems saved my sanity. She smiles and nods yes, and then offer me a piece of her cheesecake.

"It was in the the late '70s, I was fresh out of Georgetown University and working as a public relations specialist for a major pharmaceutical corporation in New Jersey, not far from my home town.

"As Goddess would have it, I was the youngest member of the department, the only female, and the only African-American. I worked with five seasoned PR executives, and my supervisor, a young man named Paul, who had been with the company for about five years, and recently had been promoted from the position I was hired to fill.

"One of my major responsibilities included editing a weekly company magazine. On this particular summer day, I had written an article about American students who had just returned from traveling abroad as exchange students.

"The story caught my eye because I, too, had been an exchange student seven years earlier and I was eager to hear about the experiences of the two recent sojourners. One was an African-American young woman who had spent the year in Japan; the other a white male student who had lived in Mexico. Both had lived with families who had younger children. I can only imagine part of the reason the parents chose to be host families to American scholars was because they thought it would be an educational experience for their children, as well as for the exchange students.

"As it turned out, on this day, I was the one to get an education.

"I had received a packet of photographs from the exchange program and had no trouble picking the perfect one to accompany my piece. The photos of the young lady showed her dressed in Japanese attire (as was the rest of her host family) sitting on the floor around a low table, sharing a meal. The photos of the young man depicted him dressed in blue jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers standing in front of a little Mexican boy, who was on his knees polishing the American student's...sneakers. Polishing his sneakers, do you hear me? On his knees, as the student towered over him.

"I was flabbergasted that the exchange program would release a picture of a student in such an imperialistic pose. Without question, I chose the photo of the other student to represent the purpose and the spirit of exchange programs.

"I expected the PR men with whom I worked to see, as clearly as I did, that the picture of the male student was bad PR. I was not prepared for my supervisor to question my judgment. He did more than that. He told me that the picture I had chosen, the picture of an African-American young woman, could not represent an American exchange student living abroad. 'Readers might be confused about who is the American,' he said.

" 'How is that possible? Everybody else at the table is Japanese!' I tried logic. 'Who else could be the American?'

" 'Look at her. Look at her short hair,' he said, pounding her face in the photo with his scrawny finger. "She could be African. How can anyone tell she is American? Use the picture of the other student,' he ordered.

"Dizzy. I tell you no lie. I felt dizzy...and nauseous. I had just received a heavy blow to my stomach, a slap to the face. My eyes began to sting, as I ran out of the conference room to the ladies room. The tears began to flow just as I slipped into the stall.

"Had this jerk just told me that a black student could not represent America? Had he really just implied that a black woman's hair wasn't representative of the good 'ole US of A? Was he really saying that a picture of a blond-haired blue-eyed boy was more representative, even if he was having a Mexican child polish his shoes?

"Was he telling me that I could not represent my country on any other soil? Was he saying my experience in Denmark was not legit? Was this really coming from a man of my generation, born and raised in the north, just like me?

"Had I spend six years of my education integrating an all white private girls' school to confront this kind of bigotry in my first corporate job? Had I spent four years of college at Georgetown, fighting for recognition in a school that had only begun to accept women just a few years earlier, to listen to this man dismiss my experiences, and this young black teenager's experiences, as not being symbolic of America?

"I dried my tears, recovered my composure, reapplied my lipstick, and returned to the conference room ready to reason.

"I casually explained that when I lived in Denmark, I had a boyfriend, Uffe, who was tall, thin, blond, and blue-eyed, and looked very much like the exchange student in question.

" 'This guy could be Danish, for all I know. How would anyone who has traveled to Scandinavia know whether he was Danish, Norwegian, Swedish, or...American? Besides, what sense does it make to have your sneakers shined? Do we really want him depicting American intelligence? This picture could quite possibly work if the young man had been wearing shoes...leather shoes that might have needed polishing. But this? This is a disgrace.

" 'Believe me. I was an exchange student. If we publish this picture in our magazine, it will be an embarrassment to all involved. Better that our readers have to pause to figure out that blacks, in this New Day, can represent America, than to use that condescending photo."

"I used the same argument as Paul and I sat across from the Director of Public Relations later that afternoon. Clearly Paul and I did not see eye to eye, but I prevailed.

"I have never, in 35 years, come that close to losing it in my workplace. Of course, I was young, naive, and on that day overwhelmed by the ignorance of the man to whom I reported. It would not be the last time I would confront racism so blatantly in the workplace. But it was the first time. And the first time always hurts the most.

"That evening, I went to a local bookstore and discovered your recently released book of poems, in a yellow jacket cover, entitled: Still I Rise. It saved my sanity that summer as I mourned the loss of my innocence. Until that summer, I believed that my education and background had prepared me to compete in any arena. Now I knew others may not perceive me as I did.

"I framed this poem over 30 years ago and it has adorned every office I have had the fortune to occupy."

Dear Readers, if you are not familiar with this "anthem," read on, read on. Right on. Right on.

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Thank you, Mother Maya, you saved my mind.

Dear Readers: What are your favorite Maya Angelou quotes or poems? Click on the comment section and let us know.

A Second Chance at Love

2011-02-21T15:40:00.001-08:00

You might call us old school because our selection of romantic songs predates the 2000's, but who can deny the soulfulness of this song, Don't Know Much, But I Know I Love You, made popular by Linda Rondstadt and Aaron Neville in the late '80s. (Click on the You Tube video below.) It works for these boomers--the second time around.

Look at this face,
I know the years are showing,
Look at this life,
I still don't know where it's going.

Chorus:
I don't know much,
But I know I love you,
And that may be all I need to know.

Look at these eyes,
They never see what matters,
Look at these dreams,
So beaten and so battered.

Chorus:
I don't know much,
But I know I love you,
And that may be all I need to know.

So many questions still left unanswered,
So much I've never broken through,
And when I feel you near me,
Sometimes I see so clearly,
The only truth I've ever known,
Is me and you.

Look at this man,
So blessed with inspiration,
Look at this soul,
Still searching for salvation.

Chorus x3:
I don't know much,
But I know I love you,
And that may be all I need to know.

I'm Baaack!

2011-02-14T12:08:00.000-08:00

After a self-imposed hiatus that extended a bit too long, I am delighted to say: "I'm Back." Boy have I missed writing to you. It has been an entire year since we've been together at My Seat on the Beach, and we've got a lot of reconnecting to do. I have missed the dialogues between my readers (Mimi, Buddy, Brad, Jevon, Maggie and Lou, especially) and I hope to meet even more blog buddies.

Let me fill you in on a few of my writing projects:

1) Aside from this blog, I am writing a memoir about coming-of-age while living over my Dad's Funeral Home. Any of my readers who have memories of that time of our lives, please, please click the Post a Comment line at the end of this blog post and give a holla. All my other readers who may be curious about the experience, please send me your questions via the Comment section.

2) You have been introduced to Buddy, Mookie, and FuBu--my family, and of course, I'll be writing about them. Many of you enjoyed reading Buddy's previous remarks in the Comment section so I hope you will tune in. He says he may write again. I just remembered, I never posted our wedding pictures. Next week. Stay tuned. (If I can figure out how to upload them.)

3) I have been teaching Communication Studies at Bay Area colleges for over 20 years now, so I am going to try my hand at writing communication articles for publication. I'll post some here for your feedback first.

4) I have been learning more (through trial and error) about how to live, work, and play with fibromyalgia. I definitely want to create a discussion with blog readers about living with chronic pain so I can write about those challenges.

As you can see, I have ambitious writing plans for this year. I hope you will join me regularly at My Seat on the Beach. (Just click on the Follower and/or Subscribe section on the right side of the blog.)

Happy Valentine's Day, everybody!

A Poem for My East Coast Clan

2010-01-12T16:20:00.001-08:00

(I recently read this poem in one of our local weekly newspapers and immediately thought of my east coast family and friends.)

Santa Cruz Has Everything --But You

Here are mountains--wondrous mountains--
with a thousand tones of green;
Here are canyons--deep, dark gorges--
Lending myst'ry to the scene:
Here are crooked trains a-winding
Up and over through the view--
Santa Cruz has everything--
Everything, but you!

Here's the ocean--placid ocean--
With its emerald-tinted bay:

Here are breakers--mighty breakers--
Sending heavenward their spray;
Here is boating, here is fishing,
Here are abalones, too--
San Cruz has everything--
Everything, but you!

Here are flowers--gorgeous flowers--
Blooms that cheer us all year long;

Here are fruits from every climate,
In a land of smiles and song;
Here are big trees--giant redwoods--
Older than Assyria's Jew;
Santa Cruz has everything--
Everything but you!

Here the cold winds--icy winter--
Finds no place to lay its head;
Here the hot winds--sultry summer--
Leaves a cooling breeze instead:
Then comes longing--silent longing--
When the sky's a golden hue;
Seems like here there's everything--
Everything, but you!
--Frank R. Bretlinger

Ba-ba-ba-buddy and the Cats

2009-12-18T19:54:00.000-08:00

For the past three months, Mookie and FuBu have been trying to acclimate themselves to Buddy's presence in their space.

It hasn't been an easy transition.
Not for cats.
Not for Man!

My cats are born and bred Californians where animals are called "pet companions," the humans they live with are called "pet guardians," and we all live together as one big, happy family. Buddy is from "Get-those-d_mn-cats-off-the-f_cking-table" Land where humans reign supreme and animals stay on the floor.

Buddy has never lived with felines.
He does not understand that they must climb high, like on top of the bookcases, to survey the condo, which, as far as they are concern, is their domain.

He does not understand that any bare flat surface, be it the bed, his desk, or the dining room table is an invitation to Mookie and FuBu to sprawl out and take a nap.
The cats don't understand the declaration: "I'm the man of the house!"

So...Buddy has created a "No Gatos" sign that now hangs on the bedroom door.
He closes the office door tightly to keep Mookie and FuBu out.
He checks under the bed every night to be sure neither one of the furry critters
has snuck in the room under his watch.

Even though the man of the house has redefined my pet companions' territory,
they are all learning how to get along.

He feeds them every morning and they have ceded the table.

Late October (poem by Maya Angelou)

2009-10-19T16:02:00.000-07:00

Carefully
the leaves of autumn
sprinkle down the tinny
sound of little dyings
and skies sated
of ruddy sunsets
of roseate dawns
roil ceaselessly in
cobweb greys and turn
to black
for comfort.

Only lovers
see the fall
a signal end to endings
a gruffish gesture alerting
those who will not be alarmed
that we begin to stop
in order to begin
again.

Everybody's Business

2009-10-01T22:04:00.000-07:00

Today marks the beginning of Domestic Violence Awareness month. In the face of a 30 percent increase of reported domestic violence incidences across the country, our California governor, Arnold Schwarzenegger, has seen fit to veto all state funding for Domestic Violence programs.

This action involves a line item veto of the Department of Public Health's Domestic Violence Program, which provided $20.4 million for 94 domestic violence centers and shelters. Services provided by these agencies also include legal advocacy, transitional housing, assistance with restraining orders, counseling, hotlines, and other vital support services.

How can we ignore what amounts to domestic terrorism? In a recent Huffington Post article, Eve Ensler, author of "The Vagina Monologues," reports that already in the past seven months of this year five men in California have killed their families and themselves. And, one hotline in Contra Costa County, CA, received triple the normal number of calls in the first seven months of this year.

In these difficult economic times, we are seeing a rise in domestic violence and a reduction in support of programs that provide advocacy for the victims. We cannot turn a blind eye to this. Let's learn more about Teen Age Dating Abuse, Intimate Partner Abuse, Elder Abuse, Sibling Abuse, the Domestic Violence Cycle, and the signs of a potentially abusive mate during this month.

Contrary to the popular belief that "what goes on behind closed doors, should stay behind closed doors," domestic violence in this country is everybody's business.

Clothed in Glory

2009-09-23T09:28:00.000-07:00

School has started, the monarch butterflies have returned, Fall has arrived in all her glory, the Farmers' Markets are bursting with the fruit of the local harvest, and Buddy completed his east-coast to west-coast drive yesterday. He drove through 11 states, none the worse for the wear.

This is a great time of year for Buddy's relocation. Autumn is his favorite season. Here in Santa Cruz, early fall is our summer. We have our best weather in September and October.

'Tis the season of change, a time of transition; 'tis the season of abundance, and a time of dying and letting go.

'Tis the season for YaYa and Buddy to start their lives together.

*************************************************************************************************

Afterword: Last week, I asked readers to submit their favorite travel songs. My friend Sherry submitted a list, among them: "Get Here If You Can" by Oleta Adams. How could I have forgotten that one? Here are the lyrics. (My sentiments exactly.)

Get Here If You Can

You can reach me by railway, you can reach me by trailway
You can reach me on an airplane, you can reach me with your mind
You can reach me by caravan, cross the desert like an Arab man
I don't care how you get here, just- get here if you can.

You can reach me by sailboat, climb a tree and swing rope to rope
Take a sled and slide down the slope, into these arms of mine
You can jump on a speedy colt, cross the border in a blaze of hope
I don't care how you get here, just- get here if you can.

There are hills and mountains between us
Always something to get over
If I had my way, then surely you would be closer
I need you closer.

(interlude, then repeat bridge)

You can windsurf into my life, take me up on a carpet ride
You can make it in a big balloon, but you better make it soon
You can reach me by caravan, cross the desert like an Arab man
I don't care how you get here, just- get here if you can.

I don't care, I don't care, I need you right here right now.

I need you right here, right now, right by my side (yeah,yeah, yeah, yeah).

I don't care how you get here, just- get here if you can.

Thanks, Sherry.

Road Trip, Road Songs

2009-09-14T20:10:00.000-07:00

In less than 36 hours, Buddy will start his cross country trip to California... home, to me, to our new future. We are getting married in November; in the interim, we will be setting up our home in Santa Cruz.

As with most things we do, songs come to mind. Road trip songs. Here are the ones that we've thought of so far:

1. "Do You Know the Way to San Jose"
2. "Are You Going to San Francisco"
3. "Homeward Bound"
4. "Cruisin"
5. "Keep On Truckin'"
6. "On the Road Again"
7. "The Long and Winding Road"
8. "California Dreamin'"
9. "Walk On"
10. "Wichita Line Man"
11. "Rollin' Down the River"
12. "Take Me Home, Country Road"
13. "Born to Be Wild"
14. "Come On and Take a Free Ride"
15. "Riding with the King"
16. "Hit the Road Jack"

These titles date us, I realize. We are looking for more current travel songs. If you think of any, please send them to us in the comment section of this blog piece, or email me.

We Came, We Saw, We Celebrated-Part 2

2009-09-07T15:33:00.000-07:00

My parents recently celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary with family and friends. I did not do justice photographing the scope of the event (the camera's battery died and I did not have the battery charger with me) but this one picture captures the essence of Meadie-Peadie and MarionBelle: my mother, ever the lady, and my father, the consummate jokester.

Mommy, my brother John Paul, and friend, Harold.

My sister Tonia (right) and her BBF, Yvonne.

John Paul's son, John Paul, Jr.

Cousin Kenny (left) shares the coveted grilling duties with Buddy (below).

My brother Dutch (Meade Vernon, Jr.), sportin' a hat, just like Meadie-Peadie, and cousin Ronnie and his wife, LaVerne.

Cousin Connie, her mom. Sara, and her husband Bill. Connie brought with her a recently researched family tree of my paternal grandfather's side of the family, and gave us all an opportunity to make corrections.

Tonia's son (and my Godson) Montae, Jr.

Buddy and my cousin Marion enjoy themselves while sharing
meat-slicing duties in the kitchen.

We have so few sibling photographs.
This is a great one of John Paul and me.

Here is a picture with me, my parents, and John Paul's dog, Paige!

It is a rare occasion when Tonia, who lives in Los Angeles, CA, and I, who lives in Santa Cruz, CA are able to visit my parents at the same time. (Notice MarionBelle, agog in the background.)

We Came, We Saw, We Celebrated

2009-08-25T08:39:00.000-07:00

Neither rain, nor mud, nor heat, nor humidity, deterred 90 people from celebrating my parents' 60th wedding anniversary party this past Saturday.

I don't have pictures, yet, but when I do, I will post a few. In the meantime, here is one of the tribute letters to my great parents:

Happy Anniversary Meadie-Peadie and MarionBelle:

There is a popular saying that the only consistent thing in life is change, but whoever said it didn't know Meade Vernon and Marion Cecelia Rowe. For me and many more people within your realm of influence, you have been the most consistent element in our lives.

It is because of your 60-year commitment and devotion to each other, your children, and your community that so many of us can gather here today to say thank you for your caring, compassion, faith, humor, and wisdom.

Who among us could forget the Meadisms that prepared us for life. Sage words like:

1) "Money don't grow on trees."
2) "You can please some of the people some of the time; none of the people none of the time. But you will never please all of the people all of the time."
3) "This too shall pass."
4) "You can't squeeze blood out of a turnip."
5) "When your 18, you're on your own."

Or how about Daddy's wise sayings that helped us learn to set boundaries:

1) "My name is Bennett and I ain't in it." Or
2) "My name's Bess and this ain't my mess!"

And didn't we all believe Mommy when she said:

1) "I've got eyes behind my back." Or
2) "What you do in the Dark will come out in the Light!"

Haven't we all been inspired by Mommy's faith:

1) "Where there is a will, there is a way."
2) "Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning."
3) "But for the grace of God, there go I."
4) "We walk by faith, not by sight."
5) "God can do any thing but fail."
6) "Hold on to God's unchanging hand."

You have led not only by word, but foremost by example. In your offspring, you have planted the seeds and continually watered the seeds, and today, I hope you can see the fruit of your love and labor.

Happy Anniversary, Mommy and Daddy. Peace, Love, and Joy, YaYa

Time to Play

2009-08-11T06:25:00.000-07:00

We don't stop playing
because we grow old;
we grow old
because we stop playing.
--George Bernard Shaw

I'm on vacation with Buddy. I'll be back on Monday, August 24, 2009.

Learning to Let Go

2009-08-03T15:57:00.001-07:00

G.K. Chesterton once wrote: "Angels fly because they take themselves lightly." If that's true, I recently decided, I'd better start letting go of some stuff or I'm never going to earn my wings.

So, in good faith, I packed 30 grocery bags of books and magazines this summer and donated them to the library. It was not easy. In fact it was excrutiating. I am from the "you-can-tell-a-lot-about-a-person-from-her-bookshelves" school of thought, and had amassed a library to represent me.

I lamented over every title: from a book of Christopher Robin's prayers to a copy of E.B. White's Charlotte's Web; from Jane Austin's Pride and Prejudice to Alice Walker's The Color Purple; from John Gray's Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus to Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which I've never read, by the way. But I planned to.

Just like I planned to put six shoe boxes of photos into albums, organize my cassettes in alphabetical order, paint my toenails--10 different colors; make homemade granola and yogurt, sew a quilt from old pairs of blue jeans, feng shui every room in my home, earn an advanced degree in at least two more subjects, and earn a million dollars before I retire.

All well-intentioned plans; all out-dated. This is what I discovered as I cleared my book shelves. I am surrounded by stuff that screams "Do me, do me, do me;" none of which I am motivated to accomplish because they represent former versions of myself. Its akin to holding onto size eight clothes when you know damn well the closest to an eight you will ever get again is your shoe size.

So now the boxes of photos have been winnowed down to two; the cassettes have been dumped; not so difficult to do when I realized I no longer own a cassette player and doubt that they are manfuctured any longer. If I paint my nails once a year I am lucky, and trying to reach my toenails is a strain, anyway, so I trashed the nail polish. Why bother making homemade yogurt when I don't like the taste of it? Afterall, its not like its chocolate pudding! The homemade yogurt maker went to the Goodwill along with the seven pairs of jeans. A blue jean quilt? What was I thinking?

I don't need to feng shui my house, I just need to simplify my surroundings.

I have enough academic degrees. I don't need to know more, I'd rather feel more.

A million dollars? Don't foresee me earning it, but I am open, open, open to receiving it from unexpected income streams. Of course, I would be willing to share. That's the only way I could travel lightly.

Morning Meditation

2009-07-28T10:37:00.000-07:00

The 23 Psalms (Bobby McFerrin's version)

The Lord is my Shepard, I have all I need,
She makes me lie down in green meadows,
Beside the still waters, She will lead.

She restores my soul, She rights my wrongs,
She leads me in a path of good things,
And fills my heart with songs.

Even though I walk, through a dark and dreary land,
There is nothing that can shake me,
She has said She won't forsake me,
I'm in her hand.

She sets a table before me, in the presence of my foes,
She anoints my head with oil,
And my cup overflows.

Surely, surely goodness and kindness will follow me,
All the days of my life,
And I will live in her house,
Forever, forever and ever.

Glory be to our Mother, and Daughter,
And to the Holy of Holies,
As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be,
World, without end. Amen

I'm 55; I've Been Revived

2009-07-20T20:04:00.000-07:00

When I was three, I could perform the "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" song.

When I was four, I could position my feet behind my head.

When I was six, I could swirl my hips and send a Hula Hoop spinning.

When I was seven, I could pat my head and rub my tummy.

By the time I was 33, I had trouble doing jumping jacks.

By 35, I couldn't learn how to do the Electric Slide.

By 40, I couldn't touch my hands to the floor.

So why, at 55, do I think I can learn how to hula?

Cuz, I'm 55
and I've been revived.

And, nobody has told the little girl in me, whom I've recently discovered is still very much alive, that she can't.

Nobody, that is, until I took a hula class earlier this month, then my own critical voice starting blaring: "Who do you think your are? Are you crazy?"

The first time I saw hula danced it was at the ocean's edge at the beach near my home. There was a man turned toward the horizon, his legs moving like the waves of the ocean, his hands motioning in prayer. I was mesmerized. This was nothing like the hula depicted in Elvis Presley movies.

This was praise. This was prayer. This was love in liquid motion. I want to learn how to move like that! I went home and put "Learn to hula" on my "Things I Want To Do Before I Die" list.

Now, 15 months later, I'm embarking on lessons. In four months, I want to be able to hula for my hubby. Even if its only a three-minute hula. Buddy is thrilled. I am humbled.

My Writing Sister, Salle, who also hulas, recently emailed me to ask how did I feel while dancing. I wrote back: "To my dismay my hips won't sway."

Yet.

Stay tuned!

An Auspicious Occasion: The In-Laws Hug and Mug

2009-07-12T21:30:00.000-07:00

You may find this hard to believe, but I actually missed the day my parents, Vernon and Marion, and Buddy's mom, Elly, met.

It was just recently--Friday, July 3.

I was here in California teaching summer school, when my future mother-in-law, Elly, and sister-in-law, Lynda, were traveling through New Jersey where both Buddy and my parents live.

I could not be there, but Buddy proudly made the introductions. I sent MarionBelle a picture of my wedding dress to share with my new mom and sister. Buddy showed our families my wedding band. I was on the speaker phone for all of the "oohs and aahhs" and for Buddy's toast to the coming together of our families.

Here, Elly, my younger sister, Paula, and Buddy's sister, Lynda, pose for a picture. Lynda e-mailed this week to tell me Paula was "the hostess with the mostest," serving iced tea and cheesecake to everyone. (Prosecco was served for the toasts.)

Elly looks on while Buddy and my father rib each other. Lynda says she love the way my dad "busts Buddy's chops!" Buddy loves it!

Ah, my Buddy-La in between our two mothers. Aren't they beautiful? I really want to tell you their age, but I haven't asked their permission. You could never guess.

The Date We Mate

2009-06-22T08:13:00.000-07:00

Time sure flies when you are planning nuptials.

Recently, Buddy and I discovered that we had not updated all of our friends and family on our wedding plans. Our original wedding scenario involved getting married in October 2010 on a golf course in Ft. Myer, Florida.

Our plans soon changed as we discussed the logistics of me trying to plan an east coast wedding from the west coast, and the challenge of getting both east coast friends and family, and west coast friends and family all together in one place to celebrate with us. My fibro started flaring up just at the thought of it.

That was a sticking point until we realized that hosting an intimate gathering in both places (California and New Jersey), some time after a private wedding, would be ideal. We liked this idea so much that it liberated us to think more creatively about our ceremony.

You know what that means...barefoot on the beach. Romantic! We have chosen to... I can't write the word. (I don't like the word.) It starts with an E, except its not really the "E-word" because its not a last minute plan and its not coming to you as a surprise; its just a less stressful approach than Plan A.

With a slight shift of perspective, we are now planning a vacation with the awesome addition of taking wedding vows while there, rather than planning a wedding production.That suits us both quite well.

So here are the specifics:

When: Friday, November 27, 2009. Yes, we chose this date, the day after Thanksgiving, because it
underscores how we feel about our union--ever so grateful. It is, coincidentally, the wedding anniversary date of Buddy's parents, who were married for 61 years! That makes our choice extra special.

Where: On the beach in lush Kauai, Hawaii. (I have picked a flowy chiffon dress, perfect for the beach. We are hooking up Buddy's wedding outfit as I write. Think: linen.)

Time: 10:00 am

Keep us in your prayers!

Dinner Time and the Living is Easy

2009-06-15T15:22:00.000-07:00

These are my parents: Vernon and Marion, also known as Meadie Peadie and Marion Belle, M&M, and Pop-Pop and Grammie.

When I visited New Jersey last month, Buddy and I had a real treat. We prepared dinner for my father's 85th birthday.

Wearing white aprons, we set the dining room table, Buddy prepared an antipasto, I poured the champagne, and they sat, relaxed, and let us serve them.

Here they are, satiated, after a meal of chicken and mushrooms in a butter/wine sauce, roasted asparagus and roasted garlic, and a strawberry, chocolate and freshly-whipped cream parfait.

The next time Buddy and I will have this pleasure will be in August when my parents celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary. That's right: 60 years!

I would love to hear from any readers who have known my parents during this time. What do you remember about the effervescent M&M?

What Happens When the Caretaker Needs Care?

2009-06-01T14:13:00.000-07:00

(This blog piece is the third in a series on fibromyalgia.)

Raised in the tradition of "the strong Black woman," it took me 50-odd years to learn how to be gentle with myself. Had I not been floored by fibromyalgia, who knows when, or if ever, I would have learned to listen to and respect the needs of my body.

For 25 years I dealt with chronic insomnia, migraine headaches, muscle spasms, and debilitating exhaustion and depression, harshly criticizing myself for not being hardy enough to cope with the demands of life.

So, what did I do to address the mess that had become my life? What any self-flagellating martyr would do...add more stress!

In 2000, when my former, visually-impaired husband, Chaz, unexpectedly lost his job as the result of the dot-com bust, I volunteered to support us both while he re-tooled. We cut out all the fluff from our budget, I added more classes to my teaching load, and he returned to school to become a massage therapist.

Two years later, at the end of his studies, Chaz developed sciatica, the result of a bulging disk, and discovered he had spinal stenosis. So on top of his visual impairment, he developed a mobility disability. We struggled for four more years on one income, while Chaz, who wanted to avoid surgery, tried many methods of mitigating his back pain, to no avail.

In the meantime, I was functioning on fumes, barely getting through the work week before completely falling apart on the week-end. My therapist, at the time, gently but firmly urged me to take a stress management course offered through my HMO. I resisted, insisting that I did not have the time, nor the energy. Rosemary insisted that I could not afford not to spend the time and energy to learn how to sustain myself.

Thank God/dess for Rosemary who cared about my well-being when I was only caring for Chaz.

I enrolled in an eight-week mindfulness course offered through Kaiser Permanente. The program was based on the book by by John Kabat-Zinn, entitled Full Catastrophe Living: Using the Wisdom of Your Body and Mind to Face Stress, Pain, and Illness. (Kabat-Zinn is the founder and former Executive Director of the Center for Mindfulness in Medicine, Health Care, and Society at the University of Massachusetts Medical School. He is also the founder (1979) and former director of its renowned Stress Reduction Clinic and Professor of Medicine emeritus at the University of Massachusetts Medical School.)

Through the program, I was reintroduced to yoga, t'ai chi and meditation, disciplines I had practiced earlier in my life because they were "cool." Now, I practiced them because they were the only methods that helped me to manage the insomnia, pain, depression, and the anxiety I was experiencing as I struggled to keep our marriage emotionally and financially above water.

Soon after taking the mindfulness course, my therapist added a psychiatrist to my medical team. He prescribed an SSRI (Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors) to help with the depression. Next, he added a tricyclic antidepressant, which when taken at bedtime in dosages lower than those used to treat depression, can help promote restorative sleep in people with fibromyalgia. At that time, I had not yet been diagnosed with fibromyalgia; rather, we were treating symptoms without knowing the cause. Tricyclic antidepressants also can relax painful muscles and heighten the effects of endorphins, the body's natural pain-killing substances.

Finally, the doctor prescribed Gabapentin (Neurontin), a medication originallydesigned to treat epilepsy that was often used to reduce certain types of pain.

Chaz Departs, YaYa Starts (Taking Better Care of Herself)

In June of 2006, Chaz finally submitted to back surgery, and I looked forward to a time of repair, rejuvenation, renewal--for both of our bodies and our marriage. But my optimism was short-lived. In early August, barely able to walk without the assistance of a cane, Chaz announced he was leaving the marriage. And he packed and was gone within a week!

There was no looking back. Chaz did not want to seek couple's counseling nor pastoral counseling, he did not want a trial separation. He no longer wanted to be married. He offered this frail explanation: "I can hardly take care of myself much less you!"

I was floored. I was flummoxed. I was flabbergasted! And, not by my own volition, I was suddenly refocused. "Now," my wonderfully maternal therapist told me, "I want you to take all the love, care, and compassion that you have devoted to Chaz all these years, and devote it to your own well-being."

Doing so has not been as easy as swallowing a handful of pills, but it has been the gift of my chronic condition. In the ensuing year, I discovered that all the medications the doctor had prescribed were used to treat the symptoms of fibromyalgia, an ailment that no one in the medical profession had mentioned as a possible cause of all of my symptoms.

In the past two years, I have learned an important lesson about caring for my illness: no one is going to advocate for my well-being better than me. I had to insist that my primary care doctor look at my medical records over the past two decades and see the connection between my symptoms. In truth, I had to educate him about fibromyalgia!

Today, I know I need 8-10 hours of sleep in order to function effectively so I guard my sleep time with a vengeance. Along with drugs, yoga, and meditation, and meting out my energy very carefully, I stretch three to five times a day, walk regularly, participate in water aerobics (irregularly), receive massages--when I can afford them, sit in the sun daily, and enjoy the loving touch of a caring partner. (More about that next week.)

Frankly, I Don't Give A *$%!!

2009-05-25T17:34:00.000-07:00

I recently found myself in the awkward position of trying to explain to someone near and dear to me why it was I was unwilling to commit to an engagement three weeks ahead of time. She would not accept my "no" but rather adamantly advanced her agenda--that of getting me to attend a meeting "that would change my life for the better."

Clearly she was not listening to me, hell-bent on racking up points for netting a new member for her organization du jour. But in all fairness, I accept some of the responsibility for our frustrating conversation. Perhaps I was not speaking clearly. Maybe I was being too diplomatic. But in all honesty, I was afraid to out myself as a fibromyalgia sufferer.

I was too embarrassed to admit that I function on finite energy and when all the energy I have on any given day is spent, I have no reserve from which to borrow. I was too much of a coward to acknowledge that the daily pain with which I live requires my best energy to manage. I was too proud to acknowledge that the overachieving, success-driven, self-actualizing woman she once knew had retired her superwoman tights and cape long ago. Now my favorite outfits consist of silk pajamas, fuzzy slippers, and a heating pad.

I didn't tell her that I'd rather spend time listening to birds sing or the ocean roar than listening to a motivational speaker pump up an audience; that I'd much rather spend a quiet evening laughing and talking with her than sharing the details of my life with a bunch of people I do not know. I did not tell her, "Frankly, I'm not looking for new friends, new projects, or new inspiration," though I wish I had.

Indeed, I wish I had told her,"If you really want to help improve my life, come on over and finish bringing in the groceries from my car. Better yet, offer to go grocery shopping for me!
Take the overdue books back to the library. Maybe you could bend down and pick up the shells that FuBu knocked off my desk. Would you be willing to brush Mookie's coat? How about vacuuming the carpet for me? You want to help improve my life? Gift me with a weekly maasage for a month. I'm pretty sure that would provide a tangible improvement to the quality of my life."

At 3:00 in the morning, I regretted that I had not said any of those things. But in the light of the day, I realized: Why expend the energy? She wasn't listening anyway.

Snow White and The Eighth Dwarf

2009-05-18T21:14:00.000-07:00

Q: What do Fibromites have in common with Snow White?

A: Sleepy (the first dwarf on the right) is our constant companion; and some would say Grumpy (the dwarf in the middle) is a regular visitor, too.

But, rumor has it, there was an eighth dwarf: Achey, a fellow Fibromite. Achey did not get out of the bed early. He did not sing: "Hi-ho. Hi-ho, its off to work we go." He was not able to go out and search for diamonds with his fellow dwarfs.

You never saw or heard of him because he was so fatigued and worn out from managing the pain of fibromyalgia (FMS) that he could never hang out with the rest of the crew.

If you asked Achey, he would tell you that FMS is a pain in the neck and in the butt...and in the occipitals, in the trapezius, head, chest, lower back, hips, gluteus, and knees. Literally.

Let's ask Achey.

YaYa: What are your common FMS symptoms?

Achey: I hurt all over and nothing seems to eliminate the pain. I have trouble going to sleep and I have touble staying asleep. And when I wake up, I have trouble going back to sleep. I pretty much feel like I have the achey part of the flu--all the time. My concentration and memory are severely affected by the lack of sleep. I hate not being as sharp and witty as I used to be.

YaYa: Oh, Achey, that must be stressful--mentally, emotionally, and physically.

Achey: It is. FMS is stressful and down-right frustrating. Many-a-day, I wake up with my clothes and pick axe right beside the bed. One part of me wants to jump out of bed and go mining with the other dwarfs, but my body feels like it has carried a ton of diamonds up a hill during the night. Its like my mother used to say: "The Spirit is willing, but the Flesh is weak."

YaYa: Does anyone know what causes FMS?

Achey: Its a mystery. That is a part of my frustration. Nobody knows for sure. But there are many theories. Researchers believe that the factors that cause or trigger FMS include:

* Injury or trauma that affects the musculoskeletal system
* Injury or trauma that affects the nervous system
* Early emotional trauma
* Neurological changes, such as disruption in the pain threshold response
* Changes in muscle metabolism that cause fatigue and decreased strength
* Profound sleep dysfunction
* Response to an infectious virus or bacteria
* Hypometabolism, an underactive thyroid, or thyroid hormone resistance
* Post-traumatic stress
* Lyme's disease

Some even believe fibromyalgia is hereditary.

YaYa: How was your fibromyalgia diagnosed?

Achey: I searched high and low for years for answers to my ailment. I've heard that it takes the average sufferer about five years to get an accurate diagnosis. One reason is because the symptoms of FMS mirror other illnesses like multiple sclerosis, lupus, and rheumatoid arthritis.

YaYa: Are there tests for FMS?

Achey: Well, there aren't any laboratory tests to diagnose FMS; but tests are used to rule out the other conditions. The American College of Rheumatology has established criteria to use for diagnosing fibromyalgia, though.

First, you must have a long-term experience of widespread pain in all four quadrants of the body. That means you have to have pain above the waist on the left and right side; and, below the waist on the left and the right side for three months or more. The diagnosis includes pain at 11 of the 18 tender points.

YaYa: Is there a cure for fibromyalgia?

Achey: No, not yet. But just having a name for what I have been experiencing is helpful. There is no cure for fibromyalgia, but there are treatments which can help a Fibromite cope with the illness. I use several, including: medication to help with the non-restorative sleep, yoga, meditation, stress-reduction techniques, massage, chiropractics, and water exercise. You'd be surprised at the correlation between sleep and pain management.

I feel better some days. Not pain-free, but better. At the rate I'm going, I should be able to attend the 75th anniversary reunion of the dwarfs in 2012.

May: Fibromyalgia Education and Awareness Month

2009-05-11T21:03:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, May 12, has been designated National Fibromyalgia Awareness Day. The theme this year is "Fibromyalgia Affects Everyone."

The slogan sounds a bit hyperbolic to me, but I will let you be the judge. Over the next several weeks, I plan to answer some basic questions about this puzzling syndrome: what is it, what causes it, how do we treat it?

If you or a loved one lives with fibromyalgia, I hope you will find the blog entries for the rest of this month helpful and hopeful.

As a functioning(most-of-the-time) "Fibromite" I want to tell you about this syndrome, how it affects the daily lives of those of us suffer with it, and how we cope. We hope with increased awareness, knowledge, and understanding, improved funding for fibromyalgia research will ensue.

FIBRO WHAT?

Fibromyalgia Syndrome (FMS) is a chronic, wide-spread pain syndrome that involves muscles, connective tissues (tendons, ligaments), bursae, and joints. FMS involves abnormal pain processing, sleep disturbances, fatigue and the resultant cognitive and memory impairment, or fibro fog as those of us plagued by it have affectionately named it.

FMS sufferers do not get much, if any, stage 4 Delta sleep. This is the healing phase of sleep where the repair of bodily tissues takes place, as well as the restoration of the immune system. Muscles in Fibromites do not recover overnight as in normal individuals, leaving us feeling as if our bodies have been marched over, multiple times, during the night.

FMS can be accompanied by such ailments as swollen glands, irritable bowel syndrome, gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD), migraine headaches, anxiety, depression, and sensitivity to environmental elements, like noise, odors, bright lights, and changes in barametric pressure and temperature.

The severity of the symptoms can wax and wane, but for many, fibromyalgia can be extremely debilitating and interfere with basic daily physical activities and the overall enjoyment of life.

Stay tuned for more on fibromyalgia:
May 18   Causes and Diagnosis
May 25   Treatments and Tips for Coping
June 8     Loving a FMS Patient (an interview
                 with my Buddy.)

I've Got The Flu, Boo-Hoo

2009-05-04T16:43:00.000-07:00

BE BACK NEXT WEEK!

I Am Reminded of an Earth, Wind, and Fire Tune

2009-04-27T18:03:00.000-07:00

Earlier today, Buddy and I were having a conversation about devotion, when, as often is the case, a song came to mind. Do you remember this one?

DEVOTION

Through devotion, blessed are the children.
Praise the teacher that brings true love to many.

Your devotion opens all life's treasures
and deliverance from the fruits of evil.

So our mission: to bring a melody,
ringin' voices, sing sweet harmony.

For you, here's a song to make your day brighter,
one that will last you long through troubled days.

Giving your heart the light to brighten
all of the dark that falls in your way.

You need devotion.
Bless the children.
Deliverance from the fruits of evil.

In everyone's life there's a need to be happy.
Let the sun shine a smile your way.

Open your heart, feel a touch of devotion.
Maybe this song will help uplift your day.

Make a better way.
You need devotion.

Lyrics by Phillip Bailey and Maurice White

The Book That Was The Nook

2009-04-20T19:40:00.000-07:00

I looked in the jewelry box.
I looked in the toilet bowl.
I combed through the kitty litter...thrice.

I looked in the cats' food dish.
I searched in the dishwasher.
I poured the coffee out of the pot...no ice.

I gently shook Mookie and FuBu.
I cleaned off the dining room table.
I emptied the vaccuum...no bling.

I crawled on my hands and knees.
I cleaned out the fireplace.
I got ashes in my face...no ring.

Where else can I look?
How 'bout in one of your books?
Sure 'nuf that's where the ring was nesting.

**********************************************

This is the book in which I found my engage-
ment ring: Mars and Venus Together Forever by John Gray. I wasn't even reading this book at the time. However, I teach Interpersonal Communication (relationship skills) courses so I always have a stack of relationship books around the house for reference, and my ring apparently hid out in one!

One of my neighbors suggested perhaps the fact that the ring snuggled into the crevice of this particular book was a sign that the book has something special to offer us. If that is so, I wished I had paid attention to the pages between which the ring was tucked.

Buddy and I both agree that we will read this book together and keep it on the shelf with our treasured photos and mementos.

She Lost Her Ring, What a Ding-a-Ling

2009-04-13T23:39:00.000-07:00

What happened last Tuesday night when YaYa mixed excitement with last-minute packing and a desire to make her engagement ring sparkle before heading off to meet her future-in-laws?

She lost her ring.
What a ding-a-ling!
And now, she's pulling out her hair.

That's right folks. It was midnight and I was finally attending to the last item on my "Get Ready for Florida Trip" check list. I had taken off all of my jewelry (two rings, a pair of earrings, and a necklace) earlier in the evening and placed them on a pretty, rose hand-painted saucer in the bathroom.

Now, I carried the saucer into the living room, sat on the couch, and poured the jewelry into a canister in a polishing solution, put on the lid, and shook it a bit. Following the instructions, I let it sit for about five minutes.

When I opened the jar and took the canister out, everything was present and accounted for--except the engagement ring! I kid you not. My engagement ring had vanished. What is this? Some kind of magic trick?

Okay. Funny. Ha Ha. May I have my ring back, please? Pretty please? Pleeeeze? Okay, this is not funny, anymore. I want my ring!

This story does not have a happy ending. Yet.

After concluding that I dropped the ring on the short trip from the bathroom to the living room, I searched high and low for two hours. I went to bed. No ring. I only slept two-and-a-half hours. Woke up and searched some more. No ring.

I left for the airport demoralized.

I actually had a wonderful time in Fort Myers with Buddy and his family, embarrassed though I was.

While there, Buddy and I developed a plan for how I could methodically cover every inch of the carpet, on my hands and knees, to find the "temporarily misplaced ring."

Finally, we joked, how great it would be if I had a metal detector. It could make this task less daunting.

Hey, not a bad idea.
So, if I have any fellow Santa Cruzan readers out there: Does any one have a metal detector they would be willing to loan me?

I'm desperate!

YaYa's Meeting Mom

2009-04-06T17:09:00.001-07:00

Spring Break has started and I am just as excited as my students. I do not have any tests to grade. I do not have any papers to read. I do not have any green eggs and ham to eat.

What I do have is a plane ticket for a 5-day trip to Fort Myers, Florida, to meet Buddy's mom and youngest sister, Lisa.

I met his two other sisters, Lynda and Judith, in February when we flew to Portland, Oregon, for a long week-end.
They were delightful, and I imagine I will be greeted with the same openness and warmth when I meet "Ms. Eli."

I'm excited. Happy Easter, everybody!

We Rocked or Did We Rolled?

2009-03-30T12:32:00.000-07:00

This morning, I sat at my desk earlier than usual to start my blog. As my fingers were poised lightly on the key board, I began to feel dizzy, then the lamp shade began to tremble, and I felt a familiar rolling motion underfoot.
.

Yup! We had an earthquake on this sunny, breezy Monday in the central coast of California.
.

According to the local television news station, it was a 4.3 on the Richter scale and lasted 10 seconds. It wasn't a "there's-a-big-hand-pushing-my-building" type of quake; it was more like a "there's-a-wave-passing-under-my-building" type--the kind that is almost enjoyable to ride if you weren't so aware of the harm that it could cause. I did not even have time to get up and stand in the doorway--the best place to be while experiencing a temblor--before it stopped.
.

The news began to report about 15 minutes after the quake and claimed no fires, no downed telephone wires, no canned food crashing off supermarket shelves, no harm, no foul.
.

Oh, yeah? Tell that to my computer and internet connection! When I returned to my desk, my computer was frozen. I rebooted but could not get back onto the internet to write the blog piece.
.

Now, I'm miffed.
.

How dare Mother Earth choose this moment to rearrange herself and let off a little pressure, right as I am ready to write? Doesn't she know I'm on a deadline?

Honestly, I had to chuckle at myself as I heard my inner voice say: "Here's a place you can choose your response rather than just react." So, I recited the Serenity Prayer:

God: Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.
.

Rather than rant and rave about the inconvenience, I thanked Mother Earth for the small quake (now we are less likely to have a big one), and I went about rescheduling my day.

Instead of writing and conducting research, which was the orginal plan; I cleaned off my desk, filed a bunch of papers, and called a number of friends back east--most of whom tried to convince me that it was time to move out of California and back to New Jersey.
.

I snickered at that suggestion for earlier this year the New Jersey county in which my family and sweetheart live had four small quakes. The residents were shocked. Some reported thinking there had been an explosion nearby; some thought a bomb had been dropped on their neighborhood, while others thought it was the end of the world. The Jersey quakes, ranging between between 2. and 3.5, were pretty light-weight, as quakes go.
.

I just talked to my neighbors, Maggie and Lou, and they didn't even feel our 4.3 tremblor. Business and usual for them.
.

As for my computer, when I turned it on this evening, a message appeared on the screen saying that the date mechanism had been incorrectly reset and I needed to rectify it in order to get back on the internet.
.

The reset date? December 30, 1969, 20-odd years before there was such thing as an internet. Apparently, not only did I feel the earthquake this morning, I also spent most of the day in a time warp!

Less Mental Work, More Wonder

2009-03-23T14:01:00.001-07:00

In ways unclear to me, I have begun to see my life in a new way...at least for several minutes a day.

Those are precious moments when my perspective shifts...and, zoom...my vision widen and sharpen simultaneously.

Or perhaps I'll hear a whispered, yet very clear and elegantly simple answer to a question I have pondered for the last twenty years of my life.

I marvel and delight at these insights.

Sometimes they are quiet confirmations of things I already know, but don't trust that I know.

Other times they are new, fresh, and instantly recognizable as the key that will liberate me from an outdated or fallacious belief I've lugged around way too long.

And sometimes, the insight comes as a sign...something symbolic in nature...and I must interpret its meaning. That's when I put on my thinking cap and mud boots, and my analytical mind takes over and does what she enjoys doing: mucking around...digging deep, mining for meaning. (Uh-oh, watch out. My friend Ricket says I can be obsessively analytical.)

Signs or Wonder

On both Saturday and Sunday mornings of this past week-end, I sat inside urging myself to go out and enjoy the bright sunshine. But I lallygagged for another hour or so, watering my plants and signing along to Handel's Messiah, at the top of my lungs. On both days, when I finally stepped outside, the sky opened up and rained big drops, even as the sun still shone.

In serious pursuit of the divine messsage, I queried Buddy: "What do you make of this? I know it was a sign! Two days in a row, I delayed, and then it rained when I finally walk outside. What to you think it means? Maybe it was a sign to stop puttering around, and get up and get productive."

Buddy: Did you see a rainbow?

YaYa: What rainbow?

Buddy: Your experienced a sunstorm twice. The perfect conditions for rainbow!

YaYa: Oh, My God/dess! I missed the pretty rainbow!

Me and my analytical mind...so busy digging for the meaning, I missed the wonder.

Embracing Souls

2009-03-16T16:44:00.000-07:00

Gracefulness has been defined

to be the outward expression of

inward harmony of the soul.

--William Hazlitt

Help! I've Been High Jacked!

2009-03-09T15:44:00.000-07:00

Just when I was beginning to praise modern technology some one ups and high jacks my personal email
address!

Wasn't it just last week I confessed that technology "has provided me with the greatest amount of satisfaction and happiness I have had in my life." (Exaggeration always comes back to bite me in the butt.)

Just a few nights ago, apparently someone hacked into my email, high jacked my contact list, and sent spam to everyone on the list--in my name. (Let your guard down for one minute and...bam!)

I feel betrayed by my whole computer system. How could this have happened? More importantly, what can I do about it?

Creating a new email address is just one step in a process. Can any of my readers suggest what else I can do to protect myself in cyberspace?

There is another way to view this incident. (I look...and I must giggle.) For more than two years, I have needed to change my personal email address because it was created by Chaz, my former husband, and the address contained letters from his name. The time had come to do something about that.

Change was afoot, but I was dragging my feet. (I feared fiddling around with my computer and its programs.)

So...boom...
a problem arises...
which necessitates a new address, pronto...
I figure out how to take care of the problem
(this is a big deal for a computerphobe)
and one more thing on my mile-long To-Do List is done!

Signs and Wonders!

One Never Knows Does One?

2009-03-02T15:12:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers: Welcome to the first Monday blog. For now and into the foreseeable future, I will publish My Seat on the Beach on Monday afternoons rather than on Friday evenings. The new schedule will give me an opportunity to take my blog to the next level: I plan to write responses in the comment section to further discussion there... and here.

When I started this blog, it was with the intention of establishing the discipline of writing at least one piece per week. At the time, I did not foresee that I would develop a readership of people who enjoy responding to each others' blog comments as well as responding to my blog entries. I confess, I love reading the blog conversations and banter as much as writing the entries.

So, I want to get in on the action. With the new publishing schedule, I will have time to correspond with my readers during the week through the comment section. I can imagine new blog topics will grow out of this exchange, new friendships will develop, and old friendships will be renewed.

The irony of all of this is: Until three years ago, I was a technophobe and techno-Scrooge. I teach communication courses at a college in San Jose, CA--public speaking, interpersonal communication, small group communication, and argumentation. Make no mistake, I have a bias in favor of face-to-face communication--no keyboards, no icons, no buttons, no earphones--no muss, no fuss.

I hate that people expected me to answer email. I have a cell phone I barely use (and don't ask me my cell number; I don't know it.) Digital cameras discombobulate me, I-Pods perplex me, and Blackberries make me itch. Most of the time, I don't even answer my home phone.

So, I have to laugh at myself when I realize that menacing machinery has provided me with the greatest amount of satisfaction and happiness I have had in my life: 1) My Seat on the Beach--brought to you by modern technology, and 2) My reunion with Buddy--made possible by. none other than the technological advances I have scorned.

One never knows, does one?

Leave Room for the Miracles--Part Two

2009-02-27T18:28:00.000-08:00

YaYa: Buddy, will you tell my blog readers what you thought when you received the condolence email from me?

Buddy: The day I read your note, I immediately exhaled and thought: “There you are! Where have you been? What took you so long?” But I thought the brief response I composed and sent back was perfectly generic and non-commital. (Laugh)

YaYa: We probably should give some background on our unusual friendship. Do you want to start?

Buddy: We became friends, almost thirty years ago, when we were in our mid-twenties. We bonded quickly and intensely.

YaYa: We shared an affinity for cooking together, eating, dancing, and the outdoors. Buddy had a motor cycle then (and now) and, oh, how I loved riding on the back of that bike. What a liberating feeling!

Buddy: But our burgeoning love did not have a chance to fully flourish. My circumstances…it was an inopportune time…

YaYa: We could not fully commit to each other. The relationship, after a lovely and soulful six months, ended swiftly…and painfully.

Buddy: Timed passed. We did not hear a word from each other for six years, but I thought about you more than you'll ever know.

YaYa: And then…and on this part we are fuzzy …we ran into each other but we don’t agree on the details. My friend Gus seems to remember that one evening he and I were at the movie theatre and saw Buddy there.

Buddy: I don’t recall that. But here is what I remember of that time: My son was 4 years old and my former wife had recently told me she was leaving the marriage. The legal process of my divorce went relatively smoothly. What it did to me on the inside is another story.

The gavel came down on my marriage one spring afternoon after our being in court for less than an hour. In a coma like fashion, I walked out of the court house to begin the ritual of going through pictures, documents, etc. It was during that time, once again, that visions of YaYa came to me stronger than ever.

YaYa: When we saw each other, my heart went out to you. You were a mess. But in the new year, I would be leaving for California, so I knew we had to maintain a strictly platonic friendship. I tried to get you interested in one of my sister’s friends. How insensitive of me. I had no idea what kind of pain you were in then. Now, after my divorce fiasco, I understand how very raw you were at the time.

Buddy: It is amazing to reconnect after all these years. I had not seen you since the spring of 1986 when I helped you pack your belongings to move.

YaYa: The irony of it all was not lost on either one of us back then.

Buddy: We kept in touch, periodically, for the next four years.

YaYa: I finished grad school in June of 1990, and in the fall, Buddy and I started making plans to see each other again. But then I got cold feet. I had just started a new career, teaching in a college setting.

I knew if I saw Buddy again… let’s just say… I did not wanted to be tempted to return to New Jersey. Buddy was running his Dad’s business, so I couldn’t imagine that he would move to California; and a bi-coastal relationship, at the time, was unfathomable. Better leave well enough alone. So we severed our ties again. Always, a clean cut.

Buddy: So we had not talked or written to each other since the end of 1990.

YaYa: That’s right. And I met Chaz six months later and married him two years after that. You and I have not been in touch for 18 years.

Buddy: Yup. I had no idea you had married, until I saw that hyphenated name. And then I thought: “This beautiful woman for whom I have kept my heart open all these years just couldn't be married.”

How long did it take for you to tell me you were divorced?

YaYa: I waited for a little over two weeks. I had to think. Truthfully, I did not expect to hear from you. I was sure you were remarried with a slew of children. But when you responded, I knew if I walked through the door that you had just flung open, this would be our opportuned time.

Starting this Monday, March 2, My Seat on the Beach will be published on Mondays.

Leave Room for the Miracles--Part One

2009-02-20T00:51:00.000-08:00

For weeks, I have been trying to decide how to introduce you to Buddy, the man with whom I share my heart. After reading last week's blog, one of my closest girlfriends wrote: "Not only has Buddy declared his devotion to you in several blog comment sections, but the man can write!"

'Tis true! He writes tender, touching letters. Adoring, alluring letters. A throw back to when people slowed down and synched their pace in order to create the nesting place that would contain their love. A time when lovers took the space to bask in each other's affection, linger in one another's arms, and swim together in bliss.

And when they were apart? Love letters straight from the heart. Magnificent, moving words of love and devotion bridged the gap.

When I mentioned my fondness for Buddy's way with words to a sister friend from a weekly writing group, she suggested that Buddy and I write a series of blog entries together. This struck us as a rather intimate way to share with you our story of rekindled love and recent wedding engagement. Herein the story that is still in creation.

(The words in italics are Buddy's)

The drive back from Florida to New Jersey this past July seemed longer than any other. I had made this trip innumerable times, visiting my parents who had retired to Fort Myer's ten years earlier. But this journey was different. My Dad had just passed away, leaving me 1,500 miles to reflect upon my life and how long would it last, I was 57 years old, my father had been 86. What had I done with my life and most importantly, how would I live the rest of it?

I suppose it's not all that uncommon for a son to think about such things, but these thoughts were coming to the surface of my mind just as quickly as the white lines were approaching then disappearing under my car as I drove 80 mph up Interstate 95.

As much as I wanted to shake them off, trying to distract myself by counting the carcasses of road kill on the highway, the thoughts kept flying back...me, raising my son as a single parent; me taking over my father's turf products business; me, life of the party; me, lonely.

By the time I arrived home and slunk into the seat in front of my computer, I had just enough energy to turn it on. I've got mail. Junk email, some business mail, and letters of sympathy from people who had read my father's obituary in the local county paper.

One email leapt out of the monitor like a run-away train, tore through my chest, and lodged itself in my heart. "Could it be?" I asked as I slumped back into the chair. I sat there motionless for about a week (or so it seemed). What I remember and will never forget is how my eyes swelled and teared each time I leaned forward and peered at her name. Yes, it was surely her, the forever love of my life, I had received an email from the woman I had loved for three decades and had not heard from in 18 years.

My vision blurred. I could not clear it. What was this...an extra surname attached to hers? What is that other last name? That doesn't belong there!!! Make it go away, pleeeeeease make it go away. Could it be? Could my heart and soul be....MARRIED?????

Alas, there it was, the signature appearing in billboard size letters:Sincerely, YaYa Bowmann-Kinsley.

(YaYa's account.)

Somethings cannot be explained and this is one: I had known, for some time, that I would reconnect with Buddy by reading his father's obituary in the newspaper. Buddy is a "junior" so I figured I would recognize the name. I don't know how long I had possessed this "understanding."

Actually this is not such a far fetched idea, connecting with old friends at times of death. I am the daughter of a funeral director and I lived over a funeral home for eight years of my life. I saw these reunions happen all the time.

And, as a child, I regularly helped my Dad write obituaries. When I was hired as a reporter on the county newspaper, many years later, my first job was "obituary writer." I tell you this to make the point: Its not out-of-the norm that I would gravitate toward reading obituaries. Some years back, I had started reading the on-line obits from my hometown paper. I read them daily...religiously. I told myself reading the obituaries provided a sensible way to strike up a conversation when I talked to my parents in New Jersey on the week-ends. I can not tell you how long I had been doing this, nor how long I knew Buddy and I would discover the whereabouts of each other through this ritual.

One morning, after going through my daily paces (feed the cats, prepare the coffee, light the candle and incense) I sat down to read the obituaries. There I saw the name that would extend the bridge to the man who had loved me the fullest--ever--in my life.

I sent a condolence email to the funeral home in Fort Myer's, addressed to Buddy. I signed it: Sincerely, YaYa Bowmann-Kinsley. I used my married name, though my long, drawn-out divorce had been finalized five months earlier--on Valentine's Day!!! Somehow, using the married name seemed...safer.

It was almost a month before I heard from Buddy. In the interim, his nephew, Daniel, 25, had passed after suffering with liver cancer for six years. His father and his nephew-both within a month. My heart telegraphed a message to his: "How are you coping, dear one? I hold you in light and love."

Several days later, I heard from Buddy in a very brief email:

"Oh my God....Karen ? How
thoughtful. How are you ? By
your name, I'm guessing I
missed my chance, and you got
married. Let's keep in touch.
Buddy"

Next Week : Leave Room for the Miracles--Part II

Remember, beginning in March, My Seat on the Beach will be published on Mondays.

I'm Giving All My Candy to Buddy!*

2009-02-13T14:31:00.000-08:00

I Am Away

for

Valentine's Day!

Details next week.

Who is Buddy? See the comment sections of the following My Seat on the Beach blogs for an introduction (scroll down to Buddy's name):

1. Here is Your First Blog Quiz of the Fall 2008 Semester--Friday, August 29
2. Counting My Blessings--Friday, November 21
3. Advent Star--Friday, December 5
4. The Message in the Bottle--Friday, December 12
5. Take the Time to Write--Friday, January 9

(To find the aforementioned blogs, just scroll down to the bottom of this page. You will see a left-hand column with the months listed. Click on the corresponding months to find the blog pieces.)

Note Bene: Starting the first Monday of March, the My Seat on the Beach Blog will be published on Mondays.

Moving to the Beat of a Different Drummer

2009-02-06T00:07:00.001-08:00

"If a man loses pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured, or far away. " --Henry David Thoreau

Or...perhaps she has fibromyalgia and just can't move as quickly as everyone else.

Perhaps she aches so much that on some days she can't move at all.

Perhaps she is so fatigued that she can't even hear the music.

Or...perhaps her fibro fog is so thick she can't distinguish the beat.

We fibromyalgia sufferers are not lazy, we are not party-poopers, we are not hypochondriacs.

We are brave people who are dealing with a poorly understood illness.

We are trying to live our lives as fully as possible on a limited amount of energy per day.

Sometimes it really helps when our companions are willing to slow down and move to the beat of our drummer.

Pain, Pain, Go Away: Dealing with Chronic Pain

2009-01-30T20:21:00.000-08:00

I knew last week when I mentioned I live with chronic pain, I would receive a lot of inquiries. I heard from several fibromyalgia sufferers, people like myself, who seriously need the support of others who deal with this mysterious ailment and desperately want the compassion of others.

I also heard from the curious, the stoic, and, the cynical, those who believe fibromylagia is just the syndrome du jour of yuppie middle-aged women. And so it is when you reveal an uncomfortable truth about yourself. People have questions. Some have doubts. All need information.

So this week, I am going to address the innocent, yet frustrating, refrain: "You don't look like you are in pain." Earlier this evening, I went in search of a pictorial depiction of pain. I wanted to see that which I obviously do not resemble. Here is what I found...the ubiquitous pain chart many hospitals give patients after surgery or other painful procedures to assist us in describing the undescribable.

Okay, so we all can agree, there is no resemblance between YaYa and the happy faces gone awry above.

The faces actually have some credibility; its the verbal descriptions that are an insult to anyone struggling to function with pain. Who is going to take seriously: "I hurt a little bit"? Who is going to prescribe a pain killer for: "It hurts a little more"? When does "It hurts even more" become "It hurts a whole lot"?

Years ago, my Mom, a nurse, taught her children certain words to help explain unpleasant body sensations. We learned terms to describe degrees of discomfort. I seem to remember words like: "soar, achey, throbbing pain, burning pain, and stabbing pain." All of which, by the way, can describe fibromyalgia, along with the phrase "electric shocking pain" which is my term for the neural pain that can accompany this disorder.

Pain is such a subjective phenomenon, and there does not exist a universally accepted chart that accurately depicts everyone's experience. I did discover a verbal explanation that sufferers could find helpful. This pain scale, designed by Andrea Mankoski, is considered useful in describing the severity, if not the quality, of pain.

(Whenever a medical professional asks you to rate your pain from 1 - 10, ask for a pain scale so you can be sure you're speaking the same language.)

0 - Pain free
1 - Very minor annoyance - occasional minor twinges.
2 - Minor annoyance - occasional strong twinges.
3 - Annoying enough to be distracting.
4 - Can be ignored if you are really involved in your work, but still distracting.
5 - Can't be ignored for more than 30 minutes.
6 - Can't be ignored for any length of time, but you can still go to work and participate in social activities.
7 - Makes it difficult to concentrate, interferes with sleep You can still function with effort.
8 - Physical activity severely limited. You can read and converse with effort. Nausea and dizziness set in as factors of pain.
9 - Unable to speak. Crying out or moaning uncontrollably - near delirium.
10 - Unconscious. Pain makes you pass out.

Throughout the year, depending on such things as the weather, my workload, my level of physical activity, my weight, my mental health, the stress in my life, and the quality of my sleep, I fluctuate between six and eight on this scale.

Since so many people are visual learners, I have made an effort to show you my pain levels. To do so, I solicited the help of a familiar cartoon character: Wile E. Coyote(WEC).

1. WEC reading a book = I feel fine.

2. WEC holding a help sign = My head, neck, and shoulders are aching and burning; I am waking up frequently during the night due to the discomfort.

3. WEC with mousetraps attached to his
extremities = I am hurting everywhere;
sleep is painful and sporadic. I know my pain
will increase because the quality of my sleep is decreasing.

4. Boulder crashing down on WEC's head = Heavy fatigue has set in. I am experiencing "fibrofog"--difficulty thinking and concentrating.

5. WEC is crashing = So is YaYa. My hips and legs throb; I feel dizzy and nauseous from the fatigue and pain. A fibromylagic flare-up is in effect.

6. WEC experiences a complete crash and burn = Unfortunately, once I have a full-fledged flare-up, I do not know how long it will last--sometimes weeks, sometimes months. Luckily, with a multi-pronged approach to treatment, I am able to keep my fibromyalgia in check most of the time. Some patients must stop working if their flare-ups persist and worsen.

Next week: Dancing to the beat of a different drummer.

A Delicate Balance

2009-01-23T16:35:00.000-08:00

A visitor recently questioned me about the stacks of river rocks he saw throughout my home and on the balconies.

"What are these," he asked in a curious little boy kind of way.

"They're rocks," I replied.

"Yeah, but what are they for?"

For a moment I was stumped.

I have used these smooth stones to adorn my space over the past few years, after once seeing an impressive number of them along the perimeter wall of a local beach. Stones, washed up from the sea, not of uniform size, placed precariously one on top of another. They spoke to me then; they speak to me now.

Each stack is a testimony to aspects of life: the startling beauty of nature in its nakedness; the power of turbulence to shape, smooth, and polish the rough and rugged; and the harmony present in simplicity.

Lately, these rock altars have reminded me of the balance which has become the essential tempo of my life; for, I live with a chronic illness that drains me of energy in a minute, visits me with pain for hours, and can rob me of sleep for nights on end. I am one of 10 million Americans who suffer from fibromyalgia, a chronic pain disorder characterized by:

                                                too little energy
                                                    on top of
                                       impaired memory and concentration
                                                     on top of
                                        not enough restorative sleep
on top of
                                   widespread musculoskeletal aches and pain
on top of
soft tissue tenderness
                                                     on top of
                                     too many mental and physical demands

Each day, I must strike a workable balance between these asymmetrical elements of my physical world and the desires of my spirit for inner peace, love, joy, and acceptance.

My stone altars are a testament to what a delicate balance that is!

The Inauguration Is Set to Rock

2009-01-16T21:58:00.000-08:00

All week I have been seeking the official word on who will perform at the inaugural events next week. Today, a list of names was published including such luminaries as Stevie Wonder, James Taylor, Bruce Springsteen, Herbie Hancock, Sheryl Crow, Garth Brooks, Mary J. Blige, Usher, and Beyonce, amongst others. So now that I know to whom the Obamas and the rest of the nation will be be rockin', I want to know what songs will be droppin'. But I have to tell you, this seems like a closely held secret.

Rumor has it Bruce Springsteen will be singing "This Land is Your Land, This Land is My Land." If this is so, we all might benefit from reviewing the lyrics. 'Ya wanna know them? Here they go:

This Land is Your Land

 by Woody Guthrie, 1940

 Chorus:
This land is your land, this land is my land
From California, to the New York Island
From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters
This land was made for you and me

As I was walking a ribbon of highway
I saw above me an endless skyway
I saw below me a golden valley
This land was made for you and me

Chorus

I've roamed and rambled and I've followed my footsteps
To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts
And all around me a voice was sounding
This land was made for you and me

Chorus

The sun comes shining as I was strolling
The wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling
The fog was lifting a voice come chanting
This land was made for you and me

Chorus

As I was walkin'  -  I saw a sign there
And that sign said - no tress passin'
But on the other side  .... it didn't say nothin!
Now that side was made for you and me!

Chorus

In the squares of the city - In the shadow of the steeple
Near the relief office - I see my people
And some are grumblin' and some are wonderin'
If this land's still made for you and me.

 On Another Note

Don't get me wrong, I'm down with a good old American folk song,

but, since I am a child of the '60s, I want to hear a song from the

civil rights era. No, I am not hankering for "Lift Every Voice and Sing," or "We Shall Overcome."

Rather, I want to hear the song my parents played repeatedly for my brother and

me after we integrated New Jersey private schools in 1965 and

1967, respectively.

Ya wanna see the lyrics? Here they go:

To Be Young, Gifted and Black

by Ms. Nina Simone, 1969

To be young, gifted and black,
Oh what a lovely precious dream
To be young, gifted and black,
Open your heart to what I mean

In the whole world you know
There are billion boys and girls
Who are young, gifted and black,
And that’s a fact!

You are young, gifted and black
We must begin to tell our young
There’s a world waiting for you
This is a quest that’s just begun

When you feel really low
Yeah, there’s a great truth you should know
When you’re young, gifted and black
Your soul’s intact

Young, gifted and black
How I long to know the truth
There are times when I look back
And I am haunted by my youth

Oh but my joy of today
Is that we can all be proud to say
To be young, gifted and black
Is where it’s at.

What songs would you like to hear performed during the inaugural celebration?

Take the Time to Write

2009-01-09T23:10:00.000-08:00

Do you remember the last time you penned a personal letter? Not an email, not a text message, but an old fashioned, hand-written letter, bearing a first class stamp?

Do you remember the last time you waited to receive such a letter, one identified by the penmanship and the faint scent of a loved one?

We have replaced the anticipation of a personal missive with the instantaneous receipt of an email; the sweet excitement of a message dressed in the personal style of another's script for the efficiency of a message written in multiple abbreviations.

We have lost the art of letter writing, and with it, a crucial vehicle for communicating appreciation, celebration, creativity, and love.

I am contemplating this loss of expression because I just discovered that January 8-14 is Universal Letter Writing Week.

I expected that the cynical among us might say that this event is just another transparent attempt of greedy greeting card companies to separate us from our thinning funds. But, I am not talking about buy a card that will say it for us. I'm imploring us to slow down, get a cup of tea, take out a lovely sheet of paper, an ink pen that scrolls, and put our feelings and thoughts into words, and our words onto papier.

I'm suggesting we reinstitute time for reflection, introspection, feeling, and expression by making space in our lives for the entire intimate experience of letter-writing. This week, honor your relationship with a loved one by writing a personal letter. These days a letter is a priceless gift.

The "R" word

2009-01-02T21:21:00.001-08:00

January 1: I recite my New Year's resolutions.

February 1: I renege upon my New Year's resolutions.

March 1: I reconsider the New Year's resolutions.

April1: I reword the New Year's resolutions.

May 1: I ratchet up my energy to kick some raunchy resolution-ass.

June 1: I ridicule myself for not making steady progress on the resolutions.

July 1: I renounce myself.

August 1: I reject my resolutions.

September 1: I resolve to try again.

October 1: I resuscitate my New Year's resolutions.

November 1: I renew my commitment to my New Year's resolutions.

December 1: I romanticize the efforts I made to accomplish my resolutions.

Wow, YaYa: That's really rucked up!

New Year, New Blog Plans

2008-12-26T13:11:00.000-08:00

Dear Readers: As I finish this year with my 25th blog entry, I want to thank all of you for your faithful readership and insightful comments. I have enjoyed writing my life stories for you, as I knew I would. The unexpected surprise for me has been the comments that so many of you have written. You have shared deeply and thoughtfully, and I am delighted by the dialog that has begun between so many of you.

In the New Year, I hope you will share my blog address: www.myseatonthebeach.blogspot.com with friends and family. In the coming year, I plan to continue to write about mental health issues, divorce recovery, creativity, spirituality, and love!

Please continue to write and even suggest blog topics. Also, if anyone wants to serve as a guest blogger, let me know.

Desiderata--Happy Holidays and A Peaceful New Year!

2008-12-19T03:05:00.001-08:00

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly, and listen to others,
even to the dull and ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be
greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career
however humble;
it is a real possession in the
changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you
to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit
to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore, be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham,
drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

By Max Ehrmann

The Message in the Bottle

2008-12-12T22:07:00.000-08:00

Two years ago, on my 53rd birthday, I took off my wedding band. It was a man’s wedding band: gold with a gold and copper strand (appearing pink) intertwined with a gold and bronze strand (appearing green) down the middle of the ring. Chaz had the same band, three sizes larger.

I wanted the man’s band. It had more heft than the typical woman’s delicate ring. I was making a weighty commitment and the size of that band seemed symbolic of the stoutness of my devotion.

For the next thirteen years, I only took the ring off when I wanted to scratch an itch underneath it. Then the day arrived when it was no longer appropriate to wear. He was gone and he wasn’t coming back!

So what to do with the ring?

I’d like to say that originally I sought an honorable method of disposing of it. But no, I took the mad woman route at first. I tried to burn it in a cauldron with thirteen years worth of anniversary , birthday, and no-special-occasion cards! (Did I really think I could destroy gold with the heat of a match? Or was I trying to transmute it based on the intensity of my ire?)

Next I tried to pawn it…or at least find a jeweler who would be willing to transform it into another piece of jewelry. No such luck. The braided segments of gold mixed with other metals made the ring unlikely for any other use.

Clearly the time was not right to dispose of the symbol of my marriage because no viable option was coming to mind. So, I decided to sit with the ring, and the betrayal, pain, and loss it represented, until I could find a way to break through to a place where I could let it go with love.

I purchased a gold bird’s nest in which to place the ring, covered it up with gold confetti hearts for another year, and let it rest amidst a stack of books and articles espousing the virtues of a spiritual divorce.

When I turned 54, I revisited the ring question. A year had past, yet I had not received any guidance from my Higher Power about what to do with the ring. I purchased a heart-shaped alabaster box, with a dove on the lid, and placed the band there for safe keeping. In the meantime, I set about collecting photos from my marriage, cutting them into teeny-weeny pieces, and burning them in the fireplace!

My divorce was finalized on February 14 of this year—Valentine’s Day. (How bizarre is that?) In the ensuing months, I have continued to do the very personal work of letting go: experiencing the grief, accepting the reality, feeling the loss, and trusting that my Higher Power is in control and everything is working out as it should.

The hardest part? Forgiving Chaz…and myself… for …everything. (Honestly, I think I will be recycling through that stage a number of times before I am completely through the process.)

Yet, when my 55th birthday rolled around this year, the perfect answer to the ring dilemma presented it self. I realized I needed to give the pain, the regret, the sadness to My Mother, the Ocean. Yes! Water, the symbol of purification. Stop trying to burn everything, YaYa. Give it to the ocean.

So last Saturday morning, I awakened early, and took the ring, a jar, and a pink index card to the lighthouse. I thanked the Goddess for all that I had learned in my marriage. I asked her to take from me the sting of divorce. And I rejoiced in the new life and new love that is opening up before me like a flower in bloom.

I wrote an invocation on the card, scrolled it into the jar along with the ring, tightened the lid, and flung it into the ocean.

Now, a week later, I wish I could add an addendum to the message in the bottle. It would read: “It is not physical transformation nor transmutation that is necessary for healing. What we need to heal is an experience of spiritual transcendence.”

Advent Star

2008-12-05T16:38:00.000-08:00

My birthday is tomorrow. I was born on the second Sunday of Advent, the day on which the afternoon Christmas Pageant service was traditionally scheduled. My mother, Marion, and her best friend, Jane, were on their way to the 4:30 p.m. service when I made my intentions known. Apparently, I was in a hurry to get the holidays underway.

As the story goes, the two young women briefly debated whether to go to church and sing some of their favorite carols before going to the hospital. They wisely by-passed St. Peter’s Episcopal Church and continued on to the other side of town to All Souls Hospital. It wasn’t long before I commenced my joyful noise. My mother still tells with amazement that she was only in labor with me for a half-an- hour.

Just this morning she reminisced, “You were in a real hurry to get here, and when you arrived, you were so at peace…a sweet lovely baby. You only cried a little bit, and then you seemed captivated by everything going on around you.”

Her friend Jane later became my Godmother, and it was she who, when I turned 30, recounted the day of my birth as if it were a fairytale. It was my turn to be amazed. How often had I been an angel in the Christmas pageant? How many times over my lifetime had I sung myself into tears with my rendition of “Away in the Manger” and “Silent Night.”

But not until the night Jane gifted me with her version of my birth did I understand I was born on what had become one of my most favorite days of the Christian Advent calendar.

Jane said she and my mother sang verses of “O Come All Ye Faithful” between contractions. ("O Come All Ye Faithful!") It tickles me to think that the carol I so love actually invited me out of the womb, and I responded with a big swooshing “Yes!”

The Darkest Days of the Year

2008-11-28T19:14:00.000-08:00

The days of December, especially those before December 21st, are the shortest days of the year; the nights leading up to the Winter Solstice, the darkest.

For those of us who are circadian rhythm- and/or serotonin level-sensitive to the absence or presence of natural light, the winter holiday season can be tricky to negotiate. Just when everyone else seems to be cheery and festive, we descend into a funk. Socializing becomes agonizing, and our energy becomes extinct.

This is especially distressing for me because my birthday is in early December. As the date approaches, family and friends will ask optimistically: "What are your plans for your birthday? How are you going to celebrate?"

"Celebrate?" I want to growl. " I just want to slumber! Why do we always have to celebrate?"

Before I learned about SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) I thought I was just a bear hiding out in a human body. Why, I would wonder, do I want to hibernate from Halloween through March? Why do I become apathetic, fatigued, irritable, lethargic, and just downright anti-social when everyone else is kicking into high-gear?

According to Dr. Richard Friedman, author of an article on SAD in today's New York Times: "As daylight wanes, millions begin to feel depressed, sluggish and socially withdrawn. They also tend to sleep more, eat more and have less sex. By spring or summer the symptoms abate, only to return the next autumn."

Traditionally, SAD has been treated with psychotherapy and/or antidepressants, or a wait-it-out-until- spring "white knuckling." But there are alternative therapies that work as well.

If you struggle with SAD, you do not have to wait for spring and summer to feel better. “Bright light in the early morning is a powerful, fast and effective treatment for seasonal depression,” said Dr. Norman E. Rosenthal, a professor of clinical psychiatry at the Georgetown Medical School and author of “Winter Blues” (Guilford, 1998). “Light is a nutrient of sorts for these patients.”

According to Michael Terman, director of the Center for Light Treatment and Biological Rhythms at the Columbia University Medical School, people are most responsive to light therapy early in the morning, just when melatonin secretion begins to wane, about eight to nine hours after the nighttime surge begins.

If SAD sends you spiraling into the winter doldrums, try some of the following techniques:

Extend each day through the use of artificial sunlight. The standard course is 30 minutes of fluorescent soft-white light at 10,000 lux a day. (Shop for full-spectrum lights.) According to Dr. Friedman, the effects of light therapy are fast, usually four to seven days, compared with antidepressants which can take four to six weeks to work.

Use artificial bedroom lights. These help people who are suffering with insomnia and severe depression. Commercially available, these lights are set to simulate dawn, automatically going from dim lighting to bright, white light every morning.

Sit near a window. Move yourself close to a window and look outside for 15-minutes at a time, 3-times daily. You could sit near the window that gets the brightest morning light while you eat breakfast, write out your to-do list, or read the morning paper. If you work in an office, you could ask for your desk to face a window. If you work at home, you have many opportunities to "follow the sun."

(If you want to understand the concept of following the sun, just watch an in-door cat for a full day.
A cat will always find the spot on the rug where there is a circle of sun, and there you will find her until the sun moves. That's her sign to get up, stretch, and move to the next sun splotch.)

Spend at least one hour outdoors each day. Try to get in an half-an-hour in the early morning, and another half-an-hour in the early afternoon. This remedy is worth getting up an hour earlier.

Don't isolate from your family and friends. Pace yourself. Perhaps you won't accept all invitations this holiday season, but you'll be up for some. Try scheduling outdoor activities in the mid-day, and increase physical activities like walking, cross-country skiing, and skating. Invite your loved ones to join you.

Try not to get discouraged. Remember, after the winter solstice, each day gets a bit longer until the summer solstice in mid-June, when we celebrate the longest day of the year.

It's all cyclical.

Counting My Blessings

2008-11-21T20:48:00.000-08:00

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow. --Melody Beattie

I am not one who takes her inspiration from one-hour television dramas; but two years ago, it was a rerun of ER which lit my dark path through to the next phase of my life.

I was facing my first Thanksgiving without Chaz, who had walked away from our marriage three months earlier. I was still in shock: depressed, despondent, and discombobulated. We had started negotiating around the communal property of the marriage that once had held our dreams but now lay in shambles, and things were not looking good.

We had agreed not to hire lawyers and litigate, but rather we chose to mediate our divorce, a fitting choice for two people who had met and fallen in love while serving as community mediators in San Francisco fifteen years earlier.

At the start of the process, a friend warned me: “Marriage is about love; divorce is about money. Get a lawyer.” Everyone said: “Get a good lawyer.”

I said no. I didn’t want to participate in a hostile divorce. I wanted a “spiritual divorce” as spelled out by Debbie Ford, author a book of the same name. I wanted to walk resolutely through the fire of anger, grief, acceptance, and onto gratitude and liberation.

“You what?” my friends exclaimed. “You know YaYa,” chuckled one of my closest confreres, Father Charles. “She’s always got to be so spiritual,” he laughed. (And this, from a priest!)

One meeting into the mediation process and it was clear Chaz was going for the jugular. California divorce law allows for the 50-50 split of communal property. Chaz wanted half of my retirement, half of our savings, half of my TSA (a tax deferred account), alimony, and he even pursued stocks that I had brought into our marriage, but never commingled.

Was I naïve? Was I crazy? Should I fight? Should I fold? Can I trust my own counsel? Should I follow my heart? Damn, trust my heart? Look at where my heart had brought me thus far.

Then, one afternoon, submerged in my funk, I was mindlessly flipping through television channels, only pausing long enough on each station to determine that its contents was of no interest to me, when I chanced upon a scene at the end of this particular ER program.

Two doctors, (I don’t even know the characters names) are sitting on a bench outside of the hospital. The two have been discussing what I can only guess was some type of trauma that one of the doctors had experienced, when the consoling member of the pair asked: “What if this didn’t happen to you, but, it happened for you?”

The experience of hearing those few words was like sitting in the optometrist’s chair as she slips different lens in and out of the heavy frame, trying to decipher exactly what is the proper prescription for your particularly challenged sight.

“No, this one is fuzzier than the last one.”
“Yes, this one is a little clearer.”
“No, this one is not quite as sharp.”
“Wait! Wait a minute! Now I can see clearly!”

A number of years earlier, I had entered therapy during a crisis in my personal life. My loving, kind, maternal therapist told me, after only one session: “You, my dear, are entering a phase of life I like to call ‘re-membering.’ You are about to go in search of, find, and re-member parts of your lost self. When you finish, you may not recognize the person you have become."

With a slight shift of my lens, I saw that this divorce experience was just one piece, albeit one very painful piece, of a much larger picture of my life. I had to trust the invisible hand that was rearranging the pieces. I was called to endure the dismemberment of this aspect of my life in order to create a more whole soul.

As I sit here on the eve of this Thanksgiving holiday, counting my blessings, I realize the need to be thankful for the trials and tribulations of life. They, too, can be transformed into blessings. “…for count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing this, that the testing of your faith worketh patience. But let patience have her perfect work, that ye may be perfect and entire, lacking nothing." --James 1:2-3

Chaz did receive 50% of the communal property, and he was awarded an alimony allotment, though it was for much less than he originally asked.

I have just finished paying the first year of alimony and I’m grateful I have been able to do so without extreme financial hardship. I am thankful for all of the support of my family and friends during the past two years. I am eternally grateful for the new me I am becoming, and for the gift of a new, precious love.

But most of all, I am thankful for the certain assurance that the Goddess Will Provide!

Gratitude ... goes beyond the "mine" and "thine" and claims the truth that all of life is a pure gift. In the past I always thought of gratitude as a spontaneous response to the awareness of gifts received, but now I realize that gratitude can also be lived as a discipline. The discipline of gratitude is the explicit effort to acknowledge that all I am and have is given to me as a gift of love, a gift to be celebrated with joy. --Henri J. M. Nouwen

Staying Awake in the Moment

2008-11-14T22:35:00.000-08:00

" The secret of beginning a life of deep awareness and sensitivity lies in our willingness to pay attention. Our growth as conscious, awake human beings is marked not so much by grand gestures and visible renunciations as by extending loving attention to the minutest particulars of our lives.

"Every relationship, every thought, every gesture is blessed with meaning through the wholehearted attention we bring to it. In the complexities of our minds and lives we easily forget the power of attention, yet without attention we live only on the surface of existence.

"It is just simple attention that allows us truly to listen to the song of a bird, to see deeply the glory of an autumn leaf, to touch the heart of another and be touched. We need to be fully present in order to love a single thing wholeheartedly. We need to be fully awake in this moment if we are to receive and respond to the learning inherent in it."

- Christina Feldman and Jack Kornfield, Stories of the Spirit, Stories of the Heart

Hail to the Chief

2008-11-07T23:04:00.000-08:00

Have you ever taken one of those endless personality tests that asks:

Q: If you were a cat with nine lives, what would you do with the other eight?
Q: If you won three million dollars in a lottery, what would you do with the last million?
Q: If you had a theme song that played every time you entered and exited a room, what would it be? (Lately, I’ve been mentally gliding through space on Jill Scott’s “Living My Life Like It's Golden.”)

Well, as of January 20, 2009, when he is sworn in as the 44th President of the United States, Barack Obama will have Thee Theme Song, the presidential anthem: “Hail to the Chief.” This song will accompany him at almost every public appearance for the next four years. That’s mind-blowing!

The melody itself is majestic, but the words are rarely sung.
Oh, would I like to hear them sung on that historic day!

    Hail to the Chief we have chosen for the nation,
    Hail to the Chief! We salute him, one and all.
    Hail to the Chief, as we pledge cooperation
    In proud fulfillment of a great, noble call.

    Yours is the aim to make this grand country grander,
    This you will do, that's our strong, firm belief.
    Hail to the one we selected as commander,
    Hail to the President! Hail to the Chief!

(The lyrics were written by Albert Gamse and set to James Sanderson's music.)

Happy Halloween

2008-10-31T21:51:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I waited. And it began to rain.

Always have a Plan B. If not, improvise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Halloween Treat for You, Dear Readers

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

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

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

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

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

01.    Thriller—Michael Jackson

It Is Well with My Soul

2008-10-24T20:08:00.000-07:00

“It is in the quiet crucible

of your personal private sufferings

that your noblest dreams are born

and God’s greatest gifts

are given in compensation

for what you have been through.”

Wintley Phipps

By The Light of The Moon

2008-10-17T21:19:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2008-10-10T22:44:00.000-07:00

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

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

Thank you, Mama Ephron!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2008-10-03T16:36:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued next week.

YaYa's Gone to Washington

2008-09-26T08:55:00.000-07:00

My Dear Readers:

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

I am here to attend a wedding,

visit my Alma Mater (Georgetown University),

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

Letter to Myself

2008-09-19T18:33:00.000-07:00

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

Dear YaYa:

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

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

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

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

It’s a zig-fu**ing-zag process:

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

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

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

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

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

Happy New Year.
Love, YaYa

No Such Things

2008-09-12T18:04:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wanderings and Ponderings

2008-09-05T23:10:00.000-07:00

A friend sent this quote to me today:

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

(I will walk on this tomorrow.)

Here Is Your First Blog Quiz of the Fall 2008 Semester

2008-08-29T18:39:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Should YaYa:

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

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

This Week on the Beach: Life's Gifts

2008-08-22T16:35:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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