Tarot Thirteen

On my birthday I drew Death, the Thirteenth Tarot Card. At first I sucked in my breath and wanted to quickly shove it back into the pile. Twenty six years ago, on my father's birthday, which coincided with Winter Solstice, I had a Tarot reading done with the Death Card appearing on the top. A week later my father fell from a rickety ladder as he was sweeping the leaves from the roof of our childhood home and died. Thus, my reticence. What my heart told me then and now is that this death card does not predict imminent physical death, though I know my death is out there, but spiritual, emotional, even mental transformation.

Just before picking the death card, I glanced at the bottom of the newly shuffled deck and there was the Wind Mother Card. So when the death card was revealed, my first thought went to the death of the mother. My Aquarius mother died last July and I have since found myself obsessed with the aging and dying process. As the oldest sibling with both parents gone, I am theoretically the next in line to walk the plank. I have been reflecting all year on my own death, so drawing the death card seems a natural outcome of these thoughts. I have gone through periods of extreme anxiety, afraid to close my eyes as I attempt to fall asleep and have often felt overwhelmed by the shortness of my life and the need to leave behind a positive legacy.

There is also the death of myself as a mother. My daughter will be twenty-two tomorrow and I must be a slow learner: as much as I continually let her go as she grew up, her final flight to independence has given me pause as I grieve the loss of the mothering phase and question my childless future. I gave more than I ever thought possible to motherhood and truly loved this role. It has been three years since the “empty nest” began and though I am more grounded in my new life, I still weep on the way home from visiting my daughter.

This umbilical cord connecting mothers and daughters must be strong. It stretches over miles and miles. I never felt close to my mother, but her final years brought out my love for her. I found that, as she lay dying, all I wanted was to be with her, in any way possible, so she wouldn't have to be alone. For months after her death, I didn't feel she was gone at all. I still sometimes sense her presence. Each sunrise and sunset brings the balance of living and dying. More than ever before, I know I have but this one last part of my life to truly be present.

As I watch myself wasting time on trivial worries and banal anger, I wonder if the dramas, the misunderstandings, the churning, anxious, self-generated emotions even matter. The death card reminds me that nothing matters. The death card tells me to get over myself, to bury the maiden and the mother and to embrace the crone. My mother never embraced her aging, rather little by little she let it squeeze her into an unhappy hole of complaint and negativity. How do I not repeat her path? This summer, the exuberance of the sixties has gradually taken over my fears. I close my eyes with gratitude for each day: each conversation, each book, each meal. I treasure and try to understand each emotion, each thought, each moment of awe. I have cherished being physically alive by hiking, biking, and kayaking. My garden has been my tranquil, bountiful place, and I have soaked in the daily lessons plants, trees and other growing things have offered me.

“Death is always on one's shoulder,” writes Carlos Castaneda in The Teachings of Don Juan. This past year has been intense. Though scared, I have sat with death; though foolish, I have run away from time, and thus from mortality. I have poked and prodded and lived with my phobias. I have reasoned and reflected; I have weeped and written. I drew Tarot Thirteen on my 64th birthday. This wrestling with death, with time, with the dark shadows has only begun. I drew the card of death, but I drew a final chance to fully and righteously live.

© 2011

Letter to Michelle Bachmann

Dear Ms. Bachmann: I am writing to you as a parent and as an American citizen who believes in our founders' constitutional creation of “liberty and justice for all.” I have heard that you also believe in our constitution. As a mother of five, I am certain you can understand a mother's love for her child. I am also certain you love each and every one of your children unconditionally, and want only that they are happy, productive adults. I love my daughter beyond words and as her mother I am saddened by the hate speech I hear coming from you and your husband's mouths. You see my twenty-one year old daughter is a beautiful, confident, compassionate Lesbian. Rather than being influenced by Satan, I see my daughter's Queerness as a deeply spiritual gift. She has dared to become her authentic self in a world that encourages conformity. She did not choose to be who she is and she cannot change who she is. She simply is the incredible human being she is suppose to be.

That you desire to become the President of the United States baffles me. To me our President needs to be held to a higher, moral standard of character. Our President needs to strive for fairness and inclusivity. Our President needs to at least respect the American citizens he or she are working for. I do not want to hear purposeful, divisive hate speech coming from the leader of my democratic country. You say you want to reinstate Don't Ask Don't Tell. LGBTQ soldiers have and are giving their lives for this country. I believe their blood also bleeds red, white and blue.

According to you and your husband, Gay people are psychologically messed up and sub-normal human beings, in bondage, despair, and enslavement. Please, Ms. Bachmann, would you appreciate such an unscientific labeling of your children, family and friends? Along with my daughter, I have known and have a multitude of Gay friends and other family members. No doubt you have unknowingly met many wonderful Gay people. The Gay community is a part of every nation, every state, every provence, every city, every community around the world. My Gay friends, family and acquaintances are attending college, have careers, are loving parents, are community volunteers, are church members. I do not want my President to be so blatantly ill-informed.

I understand you have signed a pledge to create a constitutional amendment to ban Gay Marriage. As a PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays) mother, I strongly believe the tide is turning, and equality cannot be stopped. Recent polls show the majority of Americans now believe Gays should be allowed to marry. What concerns me more is your pledge to investigate LGBTQ people who you believe are harassing people who share your particular beliefs on this topic. I do not want to go into the centuries of harassment, up to and including murder, that homosexuals have undergone. But please go to the Internet site, www.itgetsbetter.com to hear first hand of the suffering homosexuals have and still do experience during their growing-up years. No youth deserves such treatment. No youth deserves such hate and violence. And no youth should commit suicide because he or she feels so threatened and harassed that his or her life is not worth living.

I am not asking you to change your beliefs, but rather to embrace your Christian faith. For Jesus preached love not hate, the embracing rather than the distancing of one's neighbor. All I am asking, Ms. Bachmann, is that you try to change your blatantly hurtful, vitriolic words towards other human beings. During these deeply troubled and difficult times, I want my President to be a uniter rather than a divider. Sincerely, Victoria Koch, PFLAG mother, teacher, writer

© 2011

Bee Stings

Yesterday morning I was watering my garden when I noticed a group of bees or wasps circling around the zinnias. The larger bumble bees have been congenial all summer long so I spoke a few gentle words to these insects and paid them no mind. As I was expecting a call, I had my cell phone in my pocket and when it rang, I forgot about the bees and the direction of my watering. As the call ended I discovered a nipping at the bottom of my neck and a small disturbance inside my hair. I flicked my hair with one hand and that's when the trouble started. This darn wasp was lost in the jungle and in his or her effort to find a way out, she went under my shirt. Now I started panicking, lifting my shirt, flipping my head down, listening to the dreaded buzzing. I felt the sting on my back and another sting at the base of my neck and then with a final show of “take that,” I felt a sting on my upper lip.

I stopped watering, went inside and applied ice, took a homeopathic remedy and felt silly about how aggravated I'd gotten. I found myself shaking as I sat down in the arms of my comforting leather chair, with a cup of tea. Try as I might to lessen the swelling, for the rest of the day I watched as my upper lip slowly became an elongated balloon. Slowly, though, I began seeing the bee stings and my reaction to them as one of those metaphoric lessons of life. I realized that whenever I have a disagreeable phone conversation, direct interaction or unpleasant experience, it's how I react that is more important than the event itself. Receiving three bee stings in my garden, I could easily see how these corresponded to my most recent life stings.

My sister called a few days ago after a silence of several months. This is typical of us, so I shouldn't make out that it is unusual. She lives in another state and in the past few years I have flown there several times. For several summers now, my sister tells me she's coming to my neck of the woods for a visit, and then cancels at the last minute due to insufficient funds. I won't go into her upper class life style, but the sting for me is she appears to honor money more than family. But my sister is who she is, and instead of getting upset every time I have a conversation with her, why not simply apply a cold pack and relax! Our mother died recently, and our being with our mother through this passage and our taking care of lose ends after she died brought us closer. I want to feel gratitude for these moments of bonding, and I want to become more accepting of what I perceive as my sister's need for a less intimate (than I would prefer) relationship. I want to share what I can about who I am, and listen when my sister tells me her story.

What I have always known is that a family will sting us many times with their judgments, self-interests or simple unconsciousness comments. I too have given my fair share of stings, so my reaction can only be to try to become the better person I know I can be.

Most of my stings come from irritating miscommunications with friends and acquaintances. Humans will say one thing and mean another and assume their personal intent is understood. I got frazzled this week by such a friend who sent an e-mail about getting together the upcoming week. I responded to a day she suggested and somehow...don't tell me how...she interpreted my response as meaning the day I chose on the week after the one she wrote about. I was sincerely baffled when she called to clarify her misunderstanding (because I had said see you tomorrow in my responding e-mail). But did I need to go ballistic after the phone call?

I suppose the most common stings come between mothers and daughters. I have deeply felt the hollowness of the empty nest phase, and am slowly getting back to my non-mothering self. What I find, though, is that I say the dumbest things when my daughter is around. I am in a sense stinging myself. I long to impress my daughter with the worthiness of her mother, and this usually backfires. I'll say what I really don't mean and know I am saying what I don't mean and watch anxiously as my daughter interprets my words, verbatim. The salve for this sting is humor, especially the ability to laugh at my awkward self. Plus, sharing my empty nest nervousness would allow her to see why her mother is such a communication weirdo.

I sit here with my upper lip looking like I had too much Botox. Damned wasps, for my daughter tells me they must be wasps because wasps are meaner. For every action in life does there have to be a reaction? Why not instead of ranting, sing? Instead of raving, laugh? Instead of irritability, dance? Stings are maddening, and the swelling lingers for far too long. Can I ignore the swelling after taking out the stinger and caring for the itch? I'll continue to try.

© 2011

Life's Crooked Mile

Nearing thirty my heart told me I was ready to meet my soul partner. I had had several long term relationships and thought I was deeply in love. After each break up, however, the missing pieces became visible. Friends laughed as I confided my confident belief: “I will know when I meet him that he is the one.” Even now as I write these words I am mystified by the magical coincidence of love. But then as I have continually reminded my dear husband: I believe there are no coincidences.

We met at a private, residential high school up in the hills of Ojai, California. We were both substitute teachers for the Spring Break week. Most of the students were on a school-sponsored ski vacation. Our job would be to “entertain” and “possibly teach” a group of male foreign students who chose to remain behind. The Friday before my assignment began I drove up to the school to meet with the lead teachers and the director. As I walked through the main door I spied a rather tall, blond, curly haired, slightly bearded fellow strolling towards me. Dressed in a red plaid wool shirt, jeans and heavy hiking boots, his kind blue eyes and inviting smile immediately drew me in. Like in a Broadway musical my heart went zing and a quiet voice inside me spoke: Here He Is!

We introduced ourselves and shook hands. Dan told me later he had no idea why he made the next move. But as we stood frozen and entranced by each other in the middle of the hallway, he spied a small, open room with a piano inside. As if being reeled by a fishing line into this room, suddenly we were sitting together on the piano bench and Dan was playing me a song he wrote: “On My Life's Crooked Mile.”*

“Maybe a thousand people have passed through my life
In the last few years
Ther've been friends and enemies and lovers
But the distinctions are no longer that clear
And time it always passes, and they come and they go
like opening and closing doors
it gets harder and harder to remember all the faces...
But I'll always remember yours...”

I was smitten with him from the very beginning. But as we were to work together for a solid week, I deferred thoughts about our potential relationship until the following Friday. Almost immediately we discovered we worked well together. Over coffee we planned several activities and lessons we thought these students might enjoy. The lessons flopped; the outings to parks and games of basketball and tennis received a lukewarm reception. During one of Dan's tennis matches, I unconsciously walked too close behind him and with his racket swinging back for a serve he hit me in the mouth. Apologies flowed freely but this event has become a humorous touchstone for the beginnings of our romance.

What our foreign students truly wanted was a field trip to Hollywood. We secured two vans and set as our educational destination the Los Angeles Natural History Museum. We left early in the morning for the several-hour journey. The museum only appealed to a few of our students and we finally agreed to cruise Sunset Boulevard and stop at Grauman's Chinese to view star foot and hand prints. Afterwards, we found a small and delightful ethnic restaurant and it was this meal that brought the most smiles to our guests. When we made it back to Ojai we sighed with relief: no one had gotten hurt and no one had gotten lost.

Friday finally arrived and we were both exhausted. My head rambled with thoughts: What's going to happen now? Will I ever see Dan again? Isn't this relationship meant to continue? Like shy and gangly children we both kept alluding to the end of our teaching job and wanting to do something to celebrate our success. Dan mentioned a unique restaurant up in the Ojai hills and a date for dinner became a reality.

Since Dan was renting a room from one of the teachers in Ojai, I drove to his place and then he drove us up through the mountains and canyons of Ojai to Casa Landucci. This restaurant is by far the most romantic place I have ever been. Nestled in the midst of a wide ravine and surrounded by rugged and lush hills, we sat on the deck sipping our wine and feeling nature's blessing upon our meeting. We talked and talked, ate and drank, as if we were the only survivors of our species at that time and at that place. We found ourselves totally comfortable in each other's presence and as many lovers before us have exclaimed: we felt as if we had known each other for years.

“Get you to the highway
anyway away from here, I raced
from Oregon to Guatemala
sweet liberation I've chased
and with all the hard lessons that bought me
I stand before a thousand more
but of all of the friends' loving arms that have caught me
I'll always remember yours...”


And today after our first hikes through the Ojai terrain and after our first runs through the California orange groves, and after packing all we owned in two vehicles and moving to Oregon and after raising our now twenty-one year old daughter, we have known each other for years and those thirty-four years are only the beginning.

“There is so much I wanted to say to you
before you touch that dial
but it mostly amounts to thank you, for being,
On my life's crooked mile.”

*“On My Life's Crooked Mile” song lyrics by Dan Fuehring

© 2011