Category Archives: Memoir

On: Strength

Posted on April 29, 2013 | 1 Comment

Strength

It was never intended for these pages to trickle into a diary.  You know—”today I did this, yesterday I did that.”  But it’s Spring.  I’ve been through autumn and winter, and I realize that for six months I’ve been living a life I never saw coming.  So, I find myself using these pages to write about a world that I would rather ignore because it helps me keep some semblance of sanity.  The words I’ve written have felt, a little too often, dark even when the words themselves are bright.

But I wanna track back to the beginning, to the color, vision, and power of language. So in a hopscotch fashion, I have leaped around to land on: Strength.

Endurance, vigor, physical power, potency.  How to define the ability to withstand and overcome the curve balls of life?  I am not the only one with diary-producing issues.  At least three people I know have lost parents; another had a serious operation; and yet, another has been trying to heal in the wake of separation from a 35-year-old marriage.

What, I ask my God, do you want us to learn?  Could it be how to maintain equanimity under pressure? Perhaps it’s a subtle directive to keep our hearts open in spite of the ignoramuses we encounter (see?). Perhaps it’s as simple as a desire and need to find love within our courage.

I asked a minister if his faith was ever tested.

“Yes.  Every day.”

“What do you do?”

No, I’m not a skeptic.  I just want to hear what I know is the answer.

“Pray without ceasing.”

That’s all I wanted to hear.

I’ve been depending on the view from my window to help fill me up.  In the morning, I watch the clouds gather. They are snuggled together like sheep, or like cotton balls with soft, tangerine colored edges.  Some days they are scary in their weighted grayness.  And some days, the sky has no clouds at all.  I admit it: those are great days.

In the wee morning hours, say one ‘o clock, before clouds take visible form in the black-but-really-deep-blue sky, I watch the Moon through the same windows where the clouds will soon be. The Moon, in her guardianship of millenia of human genius and ignorance, is a tremendous comfort.

I willingly relinquish control to the sky, to the stars, to the deep blue infinity. In doing so, I somehow feel stronger.  The time I spend trying to control what I cannot control is like fighting an undertow.

We cannot control the death of parents, and even though we try our best, we cannot control the destiny of our bodies.  In spite of all the efforts we put into commitment, sometimes our partners will not be committed.

And so, I am taught to admit that great strength lies in surrender.  There’s something zen about that, but I don’t really know what it is.

Yet.

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Essays, Memoir, Reflection, Values and Spirituality, World View

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On… The sweetness of a name

Posted on November 10, 2012 | 3 Comments

This blog is quivery and yellow–  like pineapple Jell-O.  It shimmies and shakes as I struggle through what has become an extraordinary array of challenges.

From carpal tunnel to feet that require the use of a cane or walker, I have been traveling the road to patience and health. It hasn’t been easy, but I have the support of friends and a basically happy outlook. I am also inclined to whine a bit.

With that said, I recognize the need to keep jabbering away. Silence is not acceptable for a blog. This week in particular was an ecstatic one for me as my choice for the American presidency won the race. I am thrilled that President Obama won his second term. And now, we can get to work, the real work, of equal opportunity for all.

Now for this week’s word: names.

I, for one, am intimately connected with the experience of names, having spent years accepting or rejecting several of my own. I was my father’s firstborn, and as such, my birth name reflected his joy and prayers. My birth name meant “gracious gift of God,” and both the name and its meaning lifted me up in good and trying times. I never abandoned the name — not really. Its meaning allowed me to, at least inside my head, recognize myself as a beloved daughter of God, a belief that has revealed itself to me in good times and been hidden away in times of stress or fear.

Given that, in so many cultures, the child’s name describes a dominant personality trait, and with cousins that had nicknames like Cunning or Bossy, I figured I lucked out.

Still, over the years, I have tried on new names like a judge at a dessert tasting contest. How I started the journey is unclear, but there was this point in my development where I felt that my name was restrictive, a sentence to an impenetrable goody-two-shoes life. By the time I moved into a small apartment (and I mean small!) in San Francisco in 1969, I had decided to try out the name of Susan.

Right.

“Susan” was the name of business and surety and normalcy. But anyone who knows me will tell you that I am not a Susan, and that shirt would not fit. So, I abandoned Susan when I returned to the East Coast, started working in theater, and eventually met a troop of African-American actors where we all took African names. The name Sala came out of that experience. My father said “you will always be what I named you.” This was significant because there were times when I felt he did not like me. But his statement said that, to him, I would always be a gracious gift of God.

What was I looking for? What identity did I feel was missing? In India, I asked a meditation master to give me a new name. She told me to keep my own name. This began the inner work of trying to know who I am beyond the labels I use to describe myself: a woman, African-American, creative. I was the pound cake waiting to be drenched in the liquid lemony frosting of my own nature. After several years, I received a name from the meditation master. And, in the end, I discovered that all the names I lived with had essentially the same meaning. And the river of God ran through every single one of them.

Sala meant gentle or peace. Gloria Jean, my birth name, meant gracious gift of God, and the blessing I received from my teacher was the name of Gopi, which meant that I was to be a lover of God in all his forms. I had been bathed in the lemony frosting of my nature for my whole life, but couldn’t taste its sweetness.

Finally, I am enjoying the taste of my own nature. There’s more to come.  Yum.

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Posted in Creative nonfiction, Essays, Essential nature, Life Stories, Memoir, Reflection, Spirituality, Story telling, Values and Spirituality

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On Pie

Posted on October 27, 2012 | 3 Comments

There were a couple of comments about the sweet potato pie. The exact recipe? By now, I have forgotten. What I remember is the creamy, comforting richness.

Disclaimer: you try this at your own risk.

Mom would cook the sweet potatoes, add a pinch of salt, then mash them until not a lump could be found. She added the other ingredients one at a time. When I was a child, we did not have electric mixers. We used those hand held rotary beaters to create those stiff peaks from egg whites and cream.We developed strong arms from using those beaters.

So, we’d beat the whole eggs. Was it two or three? We’d add them to the potatoes; then, we’d add about a stick of butter. Mind you, there were a lot of sweet potatoes. Mix ’til smooth. Now comes the cream. I call it cream because that was when real milk came with cream settled on the top. Shake the bottle (yes, milk came in bottles). It was better than half and half.

Whatever happened to milk bottles?  True, they were heavy; but you could see the cream gathered on top of the milk like a thick icing. And there was no concern about the landfill. Bottles went back to the dairy and were sterilized and refilled.

The milk/cream was added and then the brown sugar and — corn syrup? To tell you the truth, I can’t remember. But, I’ll tell you this: it was sweet.

By now, our mouths were drooling over the pudding like consistency. Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Vanilla. Am I missing something?

We children were such pigs. We’d stick our fingers in the bowls and get chased away.  “Get your dirty hands out of here!” It didn’t matter what kind of pie. Peach. Blueberry. Apple. Pear. Hovering like humming birds and annoying as ants, we’d taste and get chased away.

Now when it comes to the crust, you’re on your own. That’s because when I was growing up, we used lard. For me, that’s not an option anymore. So once you have made your crust — and it will probably  be two or three — fill the pie plates with yummy stuff.

And that’s it. A chilly autumn evening or bright summer afternoon becomes more than alive…

All times are better with pie. On days like today, as we anticipate hurricane Sandy, and I begin to understand the importance of patience in the healing process,  pie is a gift and a sweet comfort.  Baking pie takes patience; savoring pie takes time.

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Creativity, Essays, Life Stories, Memoir, Reflection, Story telling

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On touch — and other sense matters

Posted on September 2, 2012 | 3 Comments

Is it hot? Is it cold? Is it sharp? Is it dull? These are the simple questions.

I was not fully conscious of how finely sensitive my finger tips are — until my sense of touch was compromised by carpal tunnel. And although surgery for CTS is common, I’ve been a holdout. That’s changed. I’m going to have surgery. Because in the process of holding out, I learned what it means to have everything I touch feel like a bowl of sand.

The texture of bread dough? Sand. The round, firm skin of a grape? Sand. The silky smooth flesh of salmon? Sand.  As I comb and brush my hair — that’s right — sand. Paper?  I won’t say it again.

There is the sad fact that I have lost bragging rights to my asbestos hands. I could pick up a veggie burger from a pan and it would not burn my fingers. This is not the case right now, and I don’t like the experience. Touch is an iridescent spoke on the wheel of my world. Touch is why I love to cook. Touch is why I love to hug and cuddle. Touch makes me happy.

A friend of mine charged me with being “touchy-feely.” I embrace that label with love. When I think of my childhood, I go back to the place where I was not raised. I go back to the summers I spent with grandparents in South Carolina. It was there where I connected with the silk of corn, the taste of well water, and the sunny warmth of fresh-cut watermelon on my tongue. It was there where I experienced soundless nights and pink cloud mornings. If I could live to be a thousand years old, I would forever embrace the sense experiences I received from my grandparents’ lands.

When I remember touch in the city, it is not a soft memory — except in the context of food. With food, touch drives memory: squeezing an orange, fluting a pie crust, slicing a melon, or rubbing a roast. When I think of touch in the city, I think of standing in summer rain to cool off from the heat of a small apartment that seven people called home. When I think of touch in the city, it comes with art—the thin press of violin strings, the satiny fit of a leotard.

And when I think of sand, in its own nature, I think of the sea. There is no sea in my kitchen; no sea in my hair.

Yesterday, for the sake of feeling the smoothness of dough, I made a pizza. I like the touch of food:  (haven’t you noticed?) kneading dough, slicing carrots, tearing lettuce, dicing onions or potatoes. But yesterday, I had a spiritual bonding with my food processor as it made the dough, and when I poured it out onto parchment to give it a brief knead…it felt like sand.

I know that this is temporary. But it’s given me pause to reflect on the importance of touch and how much I love the purity of the senses.

I guess there is truth in the saying after all. “In everything is a gift.”

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Posted in Creative nonfiction, Essays, Essential nature, Life Stories, Memoir, Reflection, Story telling, Values and Spirituality

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On saying grace and cooking

Posted on August 5, 2012 | 2 Comments

I admit it. I shamelessly admit that I’m a person for whom being in my kitchen is an anchor to the heart. I don’t care how scrappy a kitchen it might be, how modest; if I can cook for myself, I am in paradise.

Today, I went to the Farmer’s Market. I bought perfectly green zucchinis, shitake mushrooms, and leeks. Then I went to the natural foods store and bought sweet potatoes, garlic and ginger. I bought cucumbers and peaches. The cucumbers were local and not smeared with wax or petroleum or whatever they put on the big agriculture produce. Ahhh. What am I going to do with all these the peaches? What with work and rehearsal and acupuncture and physical therapy and…I don’t have time for a pie.

I’m thinking…maybe a cucumber and peach salad. What spices?  Maybe a pinch of salt and black pepper. Cumin?  I’ll let you know how it turns out.

It’s 92 degrees and humid, but I turned on the air conditioner and the oven anyway. I chopped the sweet potatoes, tossed them in spices and olive oil, and baked them. I turned on the television for my favorite cooking shows (hint: do NOT come between me and my cooking shows). I pitted cherries, sliced a lemon and put them aside. Raw cherries make my throat itch, so I put them on the stove to cook and added sugar and a little water. When they were soft, I tossed the cherries with the sliced lemon. When they were cool, I covered them with vanilla ice cream.

Dear Lord (I always seem to be saying this), I have been too busy. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be still and give thanks for the skill of cooking. I’ve let too many moments go by without offering a prayer for the food I eat. I have forgotten how easy it is to forget — to make time to be close to home.

I sliced zucchini and shiitake mushrooms; I minced ginger and garlic. I added chopped leeks and leftover greens. Throwin’ a little water into the pot, I let the vegetables steam. And while they are steaming, I remember “saying grace.”

“God is great and God is good; and we thank God for our food. By His hands we all are fed; give us Lord our daily bread.”

That was the prayer we said as children until we were old enough to sit quietly through the grown-up prayers. That’s how we began our meals, every meal, everyday, 365 days a year, every year of my life that I lived in my parents’ home.

The stillness in that moment before meals is a potent memory.

As a child, I didn’t particularly like using the time to say grace. Depending on the person praying, it could be three to ten minutes before the food hit our tongues. I’d watch as the steam floating up from the stewed tomatoes became lighter. But the invisible Grace did not care about the tomatoes.

Despite my childish anxiety about food, the act of saying grace had great power.  Power was in the humility dripping from the voices of those giving thanks. Power was in the protection released into the air; a grace.

It has been said that taking the time to pray, to express gratitude, acknowledge each other, or just to sit in silence before eating helps the digestion. I didn’t know that as a child. My thoughts were on the seductive smell of sausages and pancakes. Or the golden river of butter running through the crevices and valleys of fluffy mashed potatoes and homemade buttermilk biscuits.

But I also knew, even as my mind willed the prayers to cease, that there was magic in the air. Those times round the table are the times I remember as the best part of being home; times that I will always hold close to the heart.

My potatoes are done, the shitake-zuchinni vegetables are steamed.  I’ve poured olive oil and Bragg’s aminos over them. I plate it all up with some “vegan” chicken salad and, sigh, I shamelessly indulge in the pleasure of cooking and saying grace.

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Posted in Creative nonfiction, Essays, Life Stories, Memoir, Reflection, Story telling, Values and Spirituality

On herbs, tenacity, and carpal tunnel

Posted on July 22, 2012 | 3 Comments

To use an old colloquialism, “I come by it honest.”  Tenacity, that is. Much to my own amazement, I never give up. This has advantages and definite disadvantages.

I could never have guessed how physically challenging blogging would be. It’s a test of will and, literally, physical strength. Too many things pull at my time: work, a band, family affairs, and a book (look, it sounds good to say it, all right?).

Sometimes, I have these doubts. But words and stories are like the vitamins and herbs that I take every day. It’s part of the fabric of who I am. I am tenacious, and those who’ve known me for years know I will not give up either herbs or words.

The past six weeks have been particularly exhausting. I met a new acquaintance. Her name is Carpal Tunnel, and I don’t like her very much. I’d rather fight with a boyfriend, have a stove that over bakes my bread, or a puppy that doesn’t make it outside on time. Physical discomfort is not something that I handle very well. But I am tenacious. I continue to work and I continue to sing. I continue to have faith.

An amazing, saving grace, like acupuncture or physical therapy, is voice activated software. This fantastic invention is my latest enjoyment. I get to tell my computer what to do and, pretty much, it does it. Oh, if only people were so accommodating…

About this carpal tunnel… I always imagine that doctors, after my visits, tell their staff “Do not accept any new patients who use complementary medicine.”

Doctors, after all, do what doctors do best. They try to make things better, and in the process may prescribe and suggest things that I see as extreme –  things that involve cutting and sewing up.  Forgive my cynicism.

I’m not a knee-jerk “throw the doctor under the bus” kind of person. Allopathic physicians are useful, and in cases of extreme pain and discomfort—like when I had my first sinusitis episode and I thought my face was exploding—I’ll fall to my knees and beg for drugs — which I did. Antibiotics did the trick, and my face didn’t explode. And sad to say, in the past year, I’ve also started blood pressure medication. Sometimes, compromise of my stubborn principles is best. But generally speaking, pharmaceuticals are my last resort.  I think it’s something about the way I was raised. I know what works for me and I stick to it. I am tenacious. I come by it honest. Like a dog on a bone, I will hang on to what I want. And what I want is to heal in ways that are natural and emotionally supporting.

A few winters ago, I started getting nosebleeds. This was a new thing for me. The dry winter weather combined with the dry heat in my apartment, and it really dried the heck out of my sinuses. Then, it was endless. I got nosebleeds during the spring allergy season. Then I seemed to get nosebleeds because my nose just wanted to frickin’ bleed. I have been using herbs, natural medicines and holistic body therapies for a long, long, long time. I don’t watch infomercials about natural medicine because I think most of those people are quacks. I’ve been fortunate to have been a patient of a couple of world-renowned natural healing practitioners. And so, I have just a little bit of an idea of how to get information. I did my research and decided to use a certain supplement that has been recommended for allergies and sinuses. It worked. The nosebleeds stopped, and I continue to take at least one tablet a day, and I have not had a nosebleed for over a month (please don’t ask for advice…it’s illegal).

I don’t recommend self-medication to most people, and truthfully the use of herbs without guidance and research can be more dangerous than an over-the-counter prescription. But having researched and used herbs and natural medicines as my first response for over 30 years, I’ve learned a thing or two.

Now, I want to use herbs and complementary medicine to send this carpal tunnel packing.

When I was a child, there were many times that my mom used herbs as a first response. She was raised on a farm without all the bells and whistles of modern medicine, and her parents used herbs with regularity. Our colds were treated with lemon, sage, and honey tea. And, on occasion — I guess ‘cause we didn’t look like little alcoholics lolling about in bed craving the taste — she would add a spoonful of whiskey to the hot beverage. It was all very safe, and no one would ever overdose on lemon, sage, and honey.

Over the years my family, like many others from the country, opted for modern medicine and the old ways were, if not forgotten, left by the wayside. But we benefited from her knowledge, and I have saved myself hundreds, no, probably thousands of dollars using herbs, acupuncture, vitamin therapies, body work therapies, juicing, and so many modalities that have become a regular part of my health regime. Now, I am beginning, with my voice activated software, a new phase. But I am tenacious. Many of my friends have said so.

And with tenacity, I’ll keep you posted!

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Essays, Humor, Life Stories, Memoir, Reflection, Values and Spirituality, World View

On change… and gratitude

Posted on July 8, 2012 | Leave a comment

 

March 2009 found me fearful of the coming spring.  On March 4th, I’d had a horrific nightmare from which I woke up shivering.  The dream had a threatening quality to it — like death.  And although I kept telling myself not to worry, worry was exactly my emotional state.  I suppose I could call it a psychic experience, that presence in the air, that disquiet that says one is about to experience a major change.  I felt that the threat was real, and as it turned out, it was.

I’d been struggling with the idea of writing about food, how I learned to cook, and the place food holds in my life’s pantry of broken romances, half-finished musical pieces, and unresolved family issues. Then I received the phone call.  My youngest brother had died.  It was March 5th.

My brother’s death was a tragedy, not because he was a great writer whose dreams were not completely fulfilled, although that was a part of it.  His death was a tragedy because of the fractured way we sometimes communicate in our family, and the way we resist change.  We have never really been strong, in my view, with folks being different, with folks choosing different paths, with others being happy outside the status quo.  In other words, in my view, I am part of a people who, on several occasions, have not embraced change gracefully, and I have to admit, this was a change I was not ready to embrace — gracefully.

Change. I’ve moved from coast to coast—twice.  I’ve traveled by bus across the country.  I’ve met folks in Appalachia, Utah, the Pacific Northwest, Chicago, the Southeast, New York, California, and more.  I’ve demonstrated against the Klan, sang at the funeral of a friend’s husband, worked with a teenager who mutilated herself, and lived with a man who did not have a clue about the woman he thought he wanted to marry.  All of this change, and still, I fight Change like a boxer.  Why?

Perhaps, it’s because I’m so resistant to change that God seems to give me so much of it.  After all, the drama, trauma, and psycho – physical manipulation of living is transformative.  And as another brother likes to say “consider the alternative.”

One thing that has not changed, and never will for me, is my belief in the common heart of every human being.  With all of the political wrangling, fear mongering, and religious battering, it’s easy to become cynical and reject the sweet flavors of life.  It’s easy to become terrorized by change.  It is easy to reject the heart, the emotion, the muscle of good love, and the tenderness of life when one is resisting change.  But then comes death, and change opens the door to a floodgate of feelings, and change will, no, must be accepted.

Change nudges me to gratitude.

Change, operating in the amorphous sphere called “out of my control,” can boot me into that cesspool of “settling for.”  Don’t move.  Don’t act. Just sit and wait, and nothing will change.  But really, things don’t work that way.

To refuse change is to refuse transformation, and to refuse transformation is to not know gratitude.

My mother once called me a gypsy. The need to see more, meet more folks, taste new foods, and walk barefoot in the freezing Pacific keeps me on the move.  The need to live fully generates lots of change.  And sometimes, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing.  But the one thing I know, and I know, and I know, and I know is that without change, there is no space for gratitude.  And to experience gratitude, I will have to live with change.

More change.

I was spellbound and moved in a way that I have rarely experienced since.  I watched as an enormous black ball of hair emerged from my sister’s body. I kept asking, “Where is the baby?”  And then, there she was.  My sister’s daughter, my niece.

The ball of hair still exists, hanging to her waist, but she’s a high-powered young professional now; doing well, living well, and flourishing.  Change.

 

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Essays, Humanity, Life Stories, Memoir, Reflection, Values and Spirituality, World View

On Emotion – Part 2

Posted on June 30, 2012 | 4 Comments

One of my favorite guys, (I call him Billy Shakes), wrote in Hamlet:

To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them…

This morning, I’m taking liberty with Shakespeare’s words:

To feel, or not to feel, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to acknowledge a sea of repressed emotions
And by embracing them heal them.

Love, they say, makes you do the unthinkable. This complex blend of joy, surrender, acceptance, risk, adventure and courage is a fire under our butts to make us live fully.

For love of freedom, their families, and a chance to thrive, my parents, and hundreds of thousands of other folks’ parents, came north during the Great Migration of African-Americans in the mid twentieth century. They were looking to survive, thrive, and make a difference in their lives.  All the words of the poets, sociologists, rappers, and humanitarians—for centuries—will never convey the emotion involved with that movement.

For some, it worked out very well. For others—not so much.

I don’t know that my mother ever really knew, or acknowledged, what her real feelings were. Rage masked the pain of sacrifice.  She’d left behind her beloved parents, a job as a working teacher—a career that is so much a part of her identity that she remembers this if nothing else these days—in order to move to an area of the country she didn’t know and raise, in poverty, five children that were not in her life plans. Over the years, she swallowed her truth and regurgitated rage.  I watched, listened, fought back, and learned.

Unexpressed truth is like an ever-present itch. The only salve is to recognize true feelings, learn to express them appropriately, and make choices that allow one to live an emotionally healthy life. The process, for sure, can be a long, slow, and psychically painful one. And not everyone is up for the task.

Today, when I see my mother drop back in time and wander in that place where she ran on a farm, sang with the birds, ate freshly picked peaches, and idolized her father, my own emotion is sadness.

“Here, doggie,” she says with leftover food. “Give this to the dogs,” she says in a child-like voice.

There are no dogs here today, but I won’t argue. I say “okay” and tuck the food, when she’s not looking, into the garbage. She lives, now—so much of the time—in a place where her emotions are softer–and free.

I am fortunate.  My choices in life have given me the opportunity to learn how to feel—and express my emotions creatively. I sing, I write, I journal. I chant, and when I’m disciplined, meditate. I make an effort to say what I am feeling in a kind, respectful, and truthful way. When what I have to say is not received and the conversation floats to anger, the person ends up on a page. Yep. I will not repress my emotions.

It was once taught, even in my nuclear and extended family, that children should be seen and not heard. I’m happy to see that my siblings have chosen to raise children who laugh, get angry, express sadness, and show their feelings openly. The old rules about emotional response are as dead as pulled weeds. My nieces and nephews speak their minds, invent their stories, write, sing, dance, and ice skate with passion and freedom.

At the end of the day, being honestly connected to our feelings is our saving grace and a benefit to our community. Men in touch with and able to express their true feelings in a healthy way do not go ballistic in the work place, shooting up friends and co-workers. Women who feel safe in sharing their range of emotions in a healthy way do not murder their children, their husbands, or themselves.

Emotions count. The spectacular spectrum of energies that pass through our bodies every day in the form of joy, love, sorrow, anger, fear, and more are here for a reason. Emotions are the underpinning to creativity:  songs, stories, theater, sports marathons, raising healthy children…We sing, speak, cook, run, and dance our emotions.

Emotions are the gift and evidence of being alive, a human being—not a robot.

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Essays, Life Stories, Memoir, Reflection, Values and Spirituality

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On Experience

Posted on June 2, 2012 | 1 Comment

Experience:   fosters wisdom and paves the path to self-awareness.

There.  I said it, and that is probably why I am so committed to learning from my experiences, not from other people’s theories.  It doesn’t necessarily make for an easy way, but it makes for an interesting life.  And if I’ve learned anything about writing my experiences, it’s that no one can change what I know to be true of-about-for me.  A few have tried.  Save the planet, I say.  Stop wasting oxygen.  My experiences keep me grounded in my truth.  My experiences are the petri dish where I test out life’s theories.  And until tested, theories are all that exist.

Oh Lordy, what started this rant?

Well.  A few weeks ago, a friend and I were having dinner and talking about life.  You know.  Life.  I shared how many years ago I was up to my eyeballs in credit card debt.  Another friend at the time, who was a financial counselor, put me in touch with a debt consolidation agency that helped me pay off the debt in five years.  No small feat and a lot of beans and rice I can tell you.

Soooo…my friend and I were talking, and I said,  “I don’t know how I racked up so much debt.  I didn’t have a lot of fancy clothes or new furniture or a fancy car or any of that stuff.”

She listened to what I said for a while and got quiet. Then she asked what I used the card for.  I told her:  college tuition, books, travel, music.

Quietly, she said, “You have experiences. They’re so much more valuable than stuff.”

I thought for a moment.  “You’re right,” I said.  “I would not trade a one of my experiences for all the stuff in the world.”

Everything in these pages comes from one place:  My own experience.  I do not talk about what I do not know about.  I use my own stories to reflect on my life and the choices I’ve made.  I gather what pearls of wisdom I can from my own mistakes and successes.  And by my own standards, based on my own experience, I have more successes than failures.

Life is so full of riches, and experiences teach me what it means to continually go for authenticity. The more I stay in and with my own experience, the more authentic, the richer I become.

If I don’t know about it, I don’t talk about it.  For me, experience trumps theory every time.  If I have a political view, it’s based on experience.  Religious attitudes?  Experience.  Economics, relationships, or people?  You got it; experience.  I’m not saying that I don’t study.  I do.  Then I weigh what I’ve read-heard against what is real—for me.

Experience keeps me from taking someone else’s opinion of another person as my own.

Experience keeps me out of the cesspool of preachy, proselytizing fear mongering.  Because everyone’s experience is different—just look at how my siblings and I remember a single moment differently—owning my experience allows me to practice being non-judgmental.

I trust my experience much more than I trust another’s “ideas” about how the world operates.  And based on my experience, I try to remember:

Most people want to do the right thing. More people are committed to protecting the planet than harming it.  Youth is a state of mind and heart. Physical beauty manifests first in the spirit.

It is my experience that a sense of generosity, compassion, open-mindedness, and faith must come from one or both parents.

It is my experience that a mean young person without significant life experiences will become a mean and wisdom-less old person (hapless and hopeless at best).

It is my experience that mean, wisdom-less old people are not happy.

It is my experience, and my belief, that deep down, the heart, by nature, is forgiving.

It is my experience that knowing one’s own personal values is more important than anything else on the planet.  And that’s the work.

(Okay, and a bit preachy…)

Experience this beautiful day, wherever you are.

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Posted in Commentary, Creative nonfiction, Essays, Essential nature, Humanity, Humor, Life Stories, Memoir, Reflection, Values and Spirituality, World View

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On Bread, Laundry, and Morning Routines

Posted on May 12, 2012 | 6 Comments

I don’t like being away from the blog for too long.  But, I guess it’s good to shake things up every once in a while; break the routine, learn something new or meet new people. It protects one (i.e., me) from narrow-mindedness.  Perhaps, you’ve noticed; I do not like narrow-mindedness.  Narrow-mindedness is anchored in fear.

So, about shaking things up.  Nine years. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve set foot into a public laundry. It’s not been a conscious thing.  It’s just that most rentals now have on-site laundries as a convenience.  They’re safe, you recognize most of your neighbors, and you can count on them (the laundries…) being clean.  The down side is that you may have to wait for machines or pull someone’s laundry out because he or she left the building.

So, the other day, when I ran into one of my neighbors as she returned from the laundromat a few blocks away, I started thinking…

My mornings are pretty routine.  I’m a woman who likes to watch the sun rise.  I like to have tea and write in my journal.  I like my mornings slow, lazy, and quiet–just the way God made ‘em.  The world will bring itself to my psychic door soon enough.  Mornings—particularly weekend mornings—are when I can bake bread at 5 or 6 AM.  Because I want to.

Baking bread is like a meditation:  still and reflective.  I have lots of time to be with my own thoughts.  First, I mix flour, water and yeast.  Then let it rise.  Then, add oil and salt and more flour.  Then let it rise.  Finally, I knead and knead some more, divide the dough into loaves, let it rise again and bake.  By 8 am I have four nice loaves of bread.  The traffic is quiet, the Haverford geese honk overhead, and I can indulge myself in journaling about my “stuff.” You know what “stuff” is, right?

Well, last weekend, I changed my routine.  I packed a plastic IKEA bag full of shirts, sheets, and undies, bought a breakfast bagel sandwich at the bagel place, and headed for the local laundry.  I arrived about fifteen minutes after it had opened.  That would be 7:15.  Lugging my laundry, soap powder, bagel, and a book, I opened the door to find…Men?  Men.  There amid the cacophony of whirling washers and humming dryers was a room of men.

Now–as a child, whenever Mom’s machine broke (which with five kids seemed like all the time), we would go to the neighborhood laundry.  There were never any men there, only mothers towing infants and older children picking on their siblings.  Most of the time, it seemed that a mother’s singular focus was to keep the laundry in the machines and the children out.  Those laundromats were filled with yelling, laughing, and crying children and very harried mothers.  Men?  Never.

Who were these guys?  There was an elderly man with really thick glasses, his cane propped against a bench.  There was an obese fellow with a cap pulled tightly over his head.  His vibe was one that dared anyone to say “good morning.”  I sat on the bench across the room.  Another chunky guy chewed gum, popped it loudly, walked around, sat down, and walked around again.  They all stared at the ceiling.  I could not figure out what was so interesting with that darned ceiling.

Two Mexican men talked and laughed until one packed his laundry and moved on.  The other went outside to make a phone call.  I buried myself in my book, munched my bagel sandwich, and remembered a vacation in Tijuana that left me joyous.  I had made my way on public transportation (with limited Spanish) to meet my friends, bought colorful clothes and fabric, drank in a bar where the guys laughed at my name (means living room in Spanish, I learned… “ha, ha, very funny,” I said.) and sauntered in the sun.

I let the sounds wash over me.  Note to self: take Spanish lessons.

In an odd way, the rhythms were the same as baking bread:  put clothes in a machine, sit to read, wait 15-20 minutes, and check its progress.  The Haverford geese honked overhead.  Traffic was quiet.

At 8 o’clock, the door opened and a voice asked sweetly, “Does anyone have change for a twenty?”

“Finally,” I thought.  The men stared.  “No,” I answered.  She left.

But, I had succeeded.  I’d changed up my day.  The sky didn’t fall.  And I’d learned something I never knew before.  Men can, in fact, get up and out in the morning and do laundry.

It is good to shake things up every once in a while.

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Posted in Creative nonfiction, Creativity, Essays, Humor, Life Stories, Memoir, Story telling

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