Prayer

Oh Great Mother, tell me about Death.

What do you want to know, my daughter?

Do I have to die?

Shouldn't you be asking, Do I have to live?

But, Dear Mother, I love Life beyond words and this is why I don't want to die.

You know Death is only part of the Cycle of Life. The earth has given so much to us and we must give ourselves back to the earth.

Yes, I've heard it all before. What if there really is nothing beyond this realm? What if this is it?

Then, there is nothing.

But I'm afraid.

There is nothing to fear. You will simply come home to me.

But I'm having trouble believing in you. Believing you will be there for me.

I am here.

Are you?

Do you not feel me cradling your heart? Do you not see my breath whirling through the cedars? Do you not hear the voices of comfort I surround you with each day?

Yes, Great Mother. But isn't this merely the heart beating, the wind blowing, the birds singing?

I am here because you notice me.

But you haven't finished telling me about Death. I don't think I will ever be ready to die.

When the time comes you will be ready.

Are you sure?

I am sure

. And will you notice me, be ready for me?

I will, my dear daughter.

© 2012

From My Journal: A Culture of Guns and Violence

December 13, 2012: Another Mass Shooting. This time at our own Portland, Oregon Clackamas Town Center. My daughter works at another Portland mall and so this shooting hits home. She shared that her coworkers were extremely fearful and nervous the day after the shooting. The young shooter seems to have led a fairly normal life and yet he walked into a mall with an AR-15 semiautomatic assault rifle and a high capacity gun clip and started randomly firing. More deaths, more injuries, more sorrow.

I'm sure most of us have been to a mall or to a shopping center parking lot. Other mass shootings have occurred at high schools, college campuses, and movie houses. My daughter was in an Eugene elementary school when the Thurston High School shooting in Springfield, Oregon happened. She attends college at Portland State University and has friends at the University of Oregon. We've all been to movie theaters. Certainly each one of us can think of a friend, a relative, an acquaintance who was near or at a mass shooting here in our supposedly safe and sane United States of America.

So what is it going to take for the public to demand more responsible gun laws? Oregon State Senator Ginny Burdich is reintroducing legislation that never made it to the floor in 2011: Banning high capacity gun clips. Isn't this reasonable? And do we need semiautomatic assault rifles in everyday people's hands? We don't have to be anti-guns, only anti unnecessary innocent carnage.

December 14, 2012: I just learned of another mass shooting: 20 children at a Connecticut elementary school were randomly killed. Are we going to allow this senseless violence to continue? Eighteen beautiful children killed!

© 2012

Child of the Cosmos

A neighbor, whose partner died a few years ago and who recently lost her mother, stated, “Now I am both a widower and an orphan.”

When my own mother died, I first had a similar feeling of aloneness. Then it occurred to me: this neighbor has never been a mother. It is my role as mother that keeps me hooked to the world. The line does not end with me, I remember reflecting. But now, I can see that the line never did begin with me. For I am a daughter of the universe.

In the beginning and at the end I felt close to my mother. In between lay an expansive bridge that neither one of us were able to meet upon. There was love, but not intimacy. So when my mother died, I already knew what it was to be an orphan. I had already sought love in other places.

I am a daughter of the universe.

On a pre-winter morning I stood upon our front deck sipping my coffee and hearing the crows cawing amongst the trees. I started cawing back at them, and then it happened. I watched as two crows and then three more flew from the top of my backyard incense cedar to the top of the front maple tree. Five crows, my magic number, I thought. Five crows. I let the light filtering through the darkening sky bathe me while I breathed in the stark beauty of the leafless trees. With gratitude am I standing here.

I am a daughter of the universe.

My edgy, independent daughter doesn't need her mother. In my twenties wasn't I also similar? I sought to uproot my origins and plant myself anew. I wandered near and far, and to my surprise, my roots grew wherever I stood. I became part of a wider world. And I discovered creatures and kin who needed my compassion and mothering. I gave and I received.

I am a daughter of the universe.

At times I feel alone. At times I get captured by the dark. At times I do feel motherless. Then I hear the cawing. I see the shoots sprouting as the leaves fall. I feel the sun's warmth. And I know I will never be an orphan.

I am a child of the cosmos.

© 2012

The Party

In the late spring following my father's death, we held a party in our house. This was no ordinary party. During my father's lifetime he rarely allowed anyone outside the immediate family into our house. I could say he was a shy man; I could say he was a distrustful, controlling man; but I can't say he was a bad man. My father's heart bled for his children; my father's heart bled for animals; my father's heart reached out weekly to his old coffee shop cronies. But his home, my father's home, was his self-fortified castle.

I was in my late thirties when my father died;all of us siblings were in charge of our own lives. With my father gone, my mother was living alone and finally becoming her own person. The house was filled with her music and her occasional books and her gossip magazines. She began redecorating and reinventing the house, room by room. The idea for a party festered slowly. My father's sister, Aunt Susie, had been contacted after his death. My father and his sister had had some argument way back when and hadn't spoken in over twenty years. She took the news in a nonchalant, uncaring manner, until a few months later when her own husband passed away. Being alone, she welcomed my company. Being alone, she began to share more family history and pictures with this extremely curious niece. Shouldn't our aunt be invited to the party?

Then there was my mother's older, bossy sister, Davina, and our two cousins, Billy and Nancy. Unlike Aunt Susie and Uncle Bob, who had visited us when we were small children, they had never been to our house. My dear Uncle Bill, my mother's brother, must also receive an invitation. I had fond memories of his sitting down at our piano and playing thrilling, dramatic piano chords by ear. With our now deceased maternal grandparents, he had come to our house and inevitably entertained us with his dashing debonair attire and wit.

To be honest, it's not that no one came to our house. But if they did so, the time spent was brief. My best friend Neilani came over once or twice, but the disapproving expression on my father's face was evident...he thought Neilani was a bad influence. We did sneak off to the two Beatle movies together, and we did eat ice cream and dance on our small city's sidewalks, and we did talk an awful lot about the meaning of life. She was indeed my best growing up influence. So Neilani was invited, and our next door neighbor Lorraine and her married daughter, Denise, my sister's childhood buddy, were invited.

My brother and I were by then living in Oregon, and my sister was in Arizona, so party planning happened long distance. We discussed party foods: my mother's favorite Scottish trifle and a jello mold, macaroni salad and vegetable/cracker dips, perhaps a home-baked apple pie. There would be coffee, tea and punch and, if we dared, a little wine. My mom would be able to use her best table cloths and dishes. She could polish the silverware she received for her wedding and get out the wine glasses. She could pick flowers from my father's beloved garden.

We flew in ahead of the party date to stay with my mother. The old house was spruced up beyond recognition, and the smile on my mother's face broader than I have ever seen. We had a huge living room, thanks to my father who took our small inheritance from the grandparents and had an addition built with a beautiful brick fireplace, bay windows facing his garden, and sliding glass doors to a patio. I know that it gave my father joy, during the times he sat there in his leather chair. And for this party, the spacious coziness would be perfect.

And it WAS perfect. Everyone came. Our living room was full of eating and drinking, laughter and shared memories, heart-felt grieving and renewed vitality. I spoke with my much older cousins and discovered life events I never knew about; my uncle, perched professionally on the piano bench, was splendid in his velvet jacket and red tie; my father's aunt was, like her brother, a loquacious storyteller. I stood in the middle of the room and watched my mom interacting with her sister and brother. They all looked so much alike. I noticed Lorraine give a warm hug to her daughter Denise as she spoke with my friend Neilani, who in turn, glanced my way and gave me a knowing grin. We've made it to adulthood, she said silently. My brother, who had his plate piled high with treats, was asking Lorraine about her son, Bruce, a friend of his who couldn't be with us. Our first-class, superbly dressed sister was marveling at the exuberant conversations and reveling as a hostess.

This was no ordinary party. When people walked through our front door, they transformed our house from one of sometimes isolated loneliness to one of joyous celebration. They filled the dysfunctional cracks and creaks with a soothing, happy, slurping buzz. A tidal wave of new energy rose from carpeted floor to dusty ceiling. Everyone hugged; everyone thanked my mother and us for one of the best of times. Our party had been a success.

© 2012

From My Journal: In Gratitude

This Thanksgiving Day Dan and I will be alone. Perhaps this will be the first Thanksgiving without the daughter who will be with her girlfriend's family. We kiddingly referred to ourselves as Thanksgiving orphans when the daughter made the above announcement. “We've never gotten this holiday together as a major celebration,” she mentioned, “and we'll come to you for Christmas Eve and Christmas because that is our special time.” She's right, of course. While for many Thanksgiving is a time to spend with multitudes of extended family members, ours has been a three-some or an attempt to be with family members where cousins have totally ignored us or acted rudely. We've also had failed, miserable attempts at being with people we didn't know. So yes, this holiday hasn't been one of our winners.

Thinking to be mature and to strike out on our own, Dan and I tried earlier to make a reservation at a favorite beach bed and breakfast, but this was sold out weeks ago. Secretly we both hoped to have our daughter and her girl friend with us. While at first I felt deflated by our daughter's news, I have since recovered. I have decided to go beyond my illusive desire for community and family and to simply accept what I am given. Dan and I deserve a fine dinner with desert, wine and all the trimmings, and so we shall create one. Our cooking plans have commenced, to be accompanied by elegant place settings and candles, background music, and later activities such as hiking, movies, literary readings aloud. No doubt we could have searched for a place to invite ourselves, but for this year this feels right.

What the empty nest has given me is a compassionate understanding of how our American holidays are all about the “ideal” family, when this ideal is rarely met. Without children and their easy acceptance of magic and wonder, Winter Solstice has taken on greater spiritual importance to me than Christmas, which has become deeply crass and commercial. I don't want to become bah humbug about the winter holidays but I do want them to be more accessible to all, single, unmarried, Gay, straight, Native, non-traditional family gatherings. And I want to redefine love and gratitude this Thanksgiving.

I want to give thanks for being in a loving relationship for over thirty years. And what I want to remember is we raised a child to become an incredible and compassionate young woman, but we also raised ourselves to become giving, wiser, more humble human beings. We had a partnership before our daughter was born, and we have that partnership back again. We have helped each other grow up and we will continue to help each other become elders.

I give thanks for my daughter. That she made it through her turbulent teens and that she had support and positive resources for her “coming out” years. I give thanks she is a solid, mature human being with awesome people and navigating the world skills. I give thanks she is in a healthy, loving relationship. I simply give thanks for who she is: herself.

I may not always believe I have friends (this coming from my over-protective childhood) but I do. I have cultivated an attachment to a group of women who are thoughtful, sensitive, spiritual and caring. For all of them I am in deepest gratitude. They make me see myself as I might not see me - as whole and real.

I give thanks for the town I live in where people work damn hard for human rights and the acceptance of diversity and justice. Where many try to live sustainably through food gardens, biking and energy conservation. I give thanks my town is surrounded by Mother Earth's bounty: the oceans are in one direction, the mountains in another. Precious old growth trees encircle us and the seasons (including our abundant rain) replenish us. We are lucky to be living where we do.

What I have learned through the years here in the Pacific Northwest is the definition of family is a wider one. Family means community: neighbors, strangers walking down the streets, our own children and the children of others, students and their teachers, co-workers, friends. We all have similar needs and wants for communication, caring, shelter and vocation.

We are not alone this Thanksgiving.

© 2012

Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval

My mother kept a clean house. How she did this with working full time and raising three kids is beyond me. This was the fifties and though a man's home was his kingdom, it was the woman who maintained that kingdom. My father, who also worked full time, would come home and plop himself in his leather chair, awaiting his dinner and a relaxing television dominated evening. “I'm tired; I've had a long day,” he'd assert. Mothers and wives were not allowed to be tired at the end of their long days.

My mother was extremely neat and organized. I remember discovering after my father's death a metal file box. Inside this box my mother kept all the house and insurance papers, the bill and tax receipts. Though my father constantly criticized my mother for being weak and incompetent, it was my mother who ran our household.

As most daughters vow, I swore I would never be like my mother. But women absorb their culture's values and pronouncements through their thin-skinned pores whether we are aware of this media saturation or not. If I haven't done the dishes the night before, every morning I have to do the sink's dishes before I can begin my day. And I have to walk around my house and pick up stray hats and dropped clothing or rearrange crooked pillows. When my husband and I first lived together, he'd drop his garments everywhere. This sent red flags flying from my psyche and I had to get him a wicker laundry basket.

I ran a home child care program for nearly eight years and every morning parents arrived to a tidy and orderly living environment. It's not to say that my daughter and the other children didn't make messes and have fun, but my days had to start “put back together” and anew.

My nest is empty now and I dearly miss the hub bub and chaos of those children years. I even miss our dog and her shedding hairs and muddy paws. I find I vacuum and dust less. And trying to remove the “Hausfrau” label, I allow books to pile on tables, hats to live off hooks and even clothes to hang on chairs.

Still I see how deeply I am like my mother and how deeply I have accepted the calling of the fifties woman: My home is my castle and my home is my soul's center. I have wondered at my obsessive-compulsive need to have dishes done daily and to keep everything in its place. Am I as a woman to keep my place? I have a man who doesn't care how far a field I wander and who respects my moods and my intellect. We raised a daughter who is both similar to her mother and my opposite: daring to be herself, not influenced by media fashion and feminine hype, not worried about cleaning or tidying her living space. She and her girl friend recently moved in together. Already they have been to Home Depot and IKEA. I can't wait to see what their apartment looks like without the benefit of gender and with the benefit of a more alternative upbringing.

Was housework for my mother a form of meditative escape? Was it a way of keeping her turbulent life with a semi-violent, angry man under control? Lately I have noticed I rush into cleaning whenever emotional chaos ensues. When time-passage fears and anxieties begin to crowd my mind, my wiping away of dirt, my putting things away is something tangible I can do to reestablish my center. When the conservative, non-compassionate leanings of our American culture and the world's non-stop violence overwhelms me, I can sweep my concerns out the door, shake the negative dust from the rugs, or furiously scrub the kitchen floor.

Throughout her marriage my mother had few friends and only a handful of neighbors and coworkers to relate to. No one came over for dinner; no one sat down at our kitchen table to share a cup of tea. Her neat home, her family was all my mother had. I sit here wondering why my mother kept her house so clean when no one came over. My sister and I rarely made our beds and our clothes only occasionally reached the inside of our closet. My mother's frustration was always evident, but growing up we never matched her demands for neatness. The fact that my sister and I are both extremely tidy now is a miracle. Or is it?

© 2012

From My Journal: Faith Restored

November 5, 2012: For the last two days we have had a revival of our warmer autumn weather. People are wandering our Eugene streets in a daze - “What an unexpected surprise,” they exclaim. “If this is global warming, we embrace it.” An ever widening smile crosses my face. I'm looking up through the branches of our neighboring maple tree, watching the yellowish, red leaves floating to the ground. Our block is aglow with color and light. I can't contain my spirit indoors this morning. With my second latte I'm wandering down the streets, peering into Chris and Sophia's garden and seeing how secure Liz has made her house. She and Bill left yesterday for their winter sojourn in Mexico. How much they will miss by not being part of the rhythm of our Northwest seasons. Though I know I will complain about winter's darkness, I don't want to be far away from my home turf.

Why can't I absorb this light, store it like the squirrels store their nuts for the winter? My spirit feels so relieved when the light appears. I promised myself I would try to confront my shadows, look into my darker corners this winter. But what a fickle friend of winter I am. While the Northeast has been devastated by storm Sandy, we have been given a return summer treat. Do we realize how lucky we are? Do we embrace unexpected surprises with gratitude or take them for granted?

I realize the answer to my tendency to monotony is to be mindful of the ecstatic moments. And to confront my ever present underground fears. I want to keep adding jewels on the side of life's preciousness so it will outweigh the denser stones of life's pains. I want to chop up my melancholy into bite size pieces so they are more easily digested along side nature and every day's deliciousness. My new student called this morning...a student who did not show up for our first meeting last Thursday and who I had given up on. She apologized and appears to be ready to meet me. Again a sign of promise.

November 7, 2012: My faith in America is restored: What a victory last night with Obama winning reelection, more women, including the first openly Lesbian woman, being elected to the Senate and all four marriage equality state amendments passing. We won more easily than I imagined and the results were known earlier than I expected. Just as I did in 2008, as Ohio went to Obama I called my daughter. She was on mass transit heading home after three hours of Japanese and had been on pins and needles wondering the outcome. So my call was a positive one. We both shared our excitement and she and her girl friend were then going to drop by the free election party down the block at the Doug Fir Lounge. “What a great place you live in,” I said. “I can't wait to see your new home on Sunday.” And she and her girl friend can't wait for our visit either. With all its messiness, with all its chaos, I will miss this life, I thought to myself.

Similar to 2008 I had tears, though not as many! I was stunned actually and relieved. I have prayed and meditated constantly on this outcome. Obama's Victory Speech had his usual depth of wisdom and the knowledge that our future, our future as a humanity, rests with our diversity and our coming together in sacred community. He puts into eloquent words what I have so long believed.

Now I just want to rest my political/social mind for awhile in preparation for finding ways to strengthen my writer's voice and to give myself the courage to shout out my beliefs of love and connection while participating in community organizations that hold my inclusive, multicultural values. These next four years aren't going to be easy, but my hope is strengthened that more fairness and justice will prevail for all of us.

© 2012

Beginnings

There are beginnings. And then there are renewed beginnings. With the simmering summer weather bumping up against the colors of autumn, one October Saturday Dan and I decide to hike the Three Sisters Wilderness Obsidian Trail. Driving up the old Mc Kenzie Pass Highway, I become like a child in a candy store, oohing and aahing at the lush green and deliciously rich pastel forests flying by our car window. To elevate my mood, just take me up amongst our elegant, reaching for the sky trees and ever abundant fauna. Though the drive is a long one for a day hike, the time speeds by with our chatter and our remembrances. We brought the daughter on her first camping trip at Paradise Camp Ground when she was only two. Later we all hiked to Mathews' Lake and boated on Scott Lake. But we never took our daughter on this Three Sisters hike. For this was and is a hike for the two of us.

We reach the trail head parking spaces and are surprised to see them nearly full. Have we secretly wished to have the trail and its memories all to ourselves? At the start of the pine needle path we stand and pause. Our sixty plus year old feet have brought us through a million miles together. With our next steps we bring the past and present together. When were we here last? I calculate nearly thirty-five years ago. Dan's face is full of disbelief as I share my news: “I was twenty-nine” I state, “and you were twenty-six. We were at the very beginning of our relationship. And to think,” I continue, “our daughter's girl friend is twenty-six and she is twenty three.”

With each foot print embedded upon the leaf mulched path, I wish I could pause the passing of time. We had back packs then and were with a group of friends aiming to camp at the base of the Middle Sister and to climb her the next morning. New residents of the Pacific Northwest, we became enthusiastic adventurers into her pristine back country. We hear rustling up ahead and soft human sounds. Rounding the slightly elevated bend, we meet up with images of our former selves, a large group of young people. We stop to chat. High schoolers from Sisters, they are returning from a three day science camp with lit up smiles and abundant, left-over energy. The blessings of youth! We share how we once back packed this trail when we were in our twenties. One of the girl's gives us a precious exclamation of “ahh.”

“How far to the trail head,” asks one boy. “Not far,” we reply, “we've only been walking a short while.”

Yes, it does seem as though Dan and I have been together only a short while. Yet thirty-five years have sped by. We have lived together, been a part, reunited and gotten married, bought a house, raised a daughter, hiked, camped, traveled. We have agreed and disagreed, laughed and cried and always no matter what we have loved each other. The trail is heading straight up and I am sweating, inwardly cursing and putting one foot in front of the other. Where are those damn Obsidian Cliffs and the view of the Sisters? It was Dan's idea to come here and at the moment I am wondering if I'll make it. The higher altitude mountain air is dragging me down. But I want to please Dan. I want to be together doing this repeat and showing our younger selves we're continuing to be vibrant. I want to be here joking, reminiscing, loving this man I am with despite life's occasional struggles.

Each time I think I see the boulder path up ahead, it disappears amongst the thicket of trees. Dan's famous hiking lines, “It flattens out up here or it's just around the corner,” are proving fickle. I smell the pine perfume, look up through the canopy of branches and recharge my energy. Then finally, the granite rock-walled ascending path comes into view. We climb along an edge that takes us slowly up above the firs we've left behind. After several switchbacks we round a corner and there spread out before us is a panoramic glimpse of the North and Middle Sister on our left and the sheer obsidian cliffs on our right.

This is it, we tell ourselves. This is the very spot where we had our picture taken with our packs thirty-five years ago. Dan holds out his cell phone, we break into happy smiles and he snaps our picture. Though our hair is gray, our bodies a bit sturdier and worn, our faces are the same. Our eyes meet and we kiss. We find a place to sit and lunch while being serenely cradled inside nature's bounty. The trail in front of us descends down into meadows and we think about walking farther, but remind ourselves that going down means coming up again. We are content to be where we are.

During these past few years I have struggled with our empty nest. How I dearly loved raising our daughter and being a mother. But as we sit and eat, I am reminded about all those pre-parenting years. Our love of nature, our appreciation of the beauty found in the Pacific Northwest, our love of being together has never faltered.

Dan takes a few more pictures as we continue to linger at this breathtaking sight. There is a no-rush, patient silence between us. Without words we know we don't want to leave this spot. We want to sit here forever side by side. And haven't we done just that? Three decades isn't forever but it is a long, long time.

Eventually, we stuff our garbage into the day pack, put the water bottles in the mesh side pockets and help our creaking bodies stand up. We give one last panoramic glance, say good-bye to the Sisters and the cliffs and put our feet upon the return path. Going down is easier. Maybe the first thirty years are only the first beginning, I think. Maybe these second three decades will be even richer. Because I love being with this man, I know this is true. I am content.

© 2012

Voting Our Values

The presidential election of 2012 presents us with a clear choice. What values do we want America to represent? Yes, we need jobs. But do we want our nation to be run solely as a business with corporations seen as people and with the race for more possessions as our focus?

Or do we want to create a compassionate community with actual human beings caring for one another? Do we want our care to include or exclude our Gay brothers and sisters and our immigrants? Or do we want to forget our own off shore origins and our own struggles for acceptance?

Women fought long and hard for the right to vote and the right to be treated fairly and equally with men. Do women want to give up control over their own bodies? Do women want a say in how they are treated in the workplace and in their homes?

We have been and are a prosperous nation. Do we pile our abundance ever higher with greed or do we give every citizen the chance at a healthy life by providing all with health care? Will we give a hand up to our poor, our homeless and our elderly? Will we put educating our children and honoring Mother Earth at the top of our list?

Will we reach out and be part of a community of world leaders, respecting others' cultural differences? Or will the United States become an autocratic country, telling other nations they must play by our rules or else? Will diplomacy and cooperation win out over conflict/military escalation?

What values do we want to teach our children? What kind of world do we want to live in? Voting gives each of us a voice.

© 2012

From My Journal: Out of the Closet

I am afraid to write. For sometimes I am afraid to put into words the banality of my days. How I look in the mirror each morning and wonder if this is the day I will finally be beautiful. How so like my mother I am: scanning my closet, putting together an outfit that is color coordinated, brushing and brushing my hair, outlining my eyes, erasing dark, under-eye circles. The pruning and preening, the putting together is an act I go through to tell myself I am here and the day has begun. But who will see me? Who cares how I appear?

We camouflage ourselves from “outside life.” We try to live in order to forget about death. Dan's Aunt Dot died last week at 97. She was fairly healthy up to her early nineties. Then she moved near her daughter but not with her daughter. And I wonder why. Her last weeks were anxious and at times delirious. It is these downhill weeks that are discussed rather than the whole of the years before. Aging is scary. No one wants to get old. Dan's mother tells us, “Please shoot me if I get like Dot.” But Dot led an amazingly active life until her aging caught up with her. I don't want to lose my mind. I say I want to be aware and yet I can understand the need to escape the inevitable end.

I love when poets, artists, philosophers tell us to tune into and appreciate what we have now. Do I have all I need where I am at this ticking away moment? In the present I have no need for worry and anxiety because the unknown future is a ways out in front of me. In the present I have my mind, my dear husband, my friends, my garden, my home. In the present I can write and read, sing and walk whenever I want. So yes, I do have everything I need. With each passing day I am getting older, but with each passing day I am learning to accept my aging.

The mirror lies. Why I trust this mirror to reflect my true story is puzzling. I notice my face appears younger, the happier I feel. Cats constantly groom themselves. Birds pluck and preen their feathers. Gorillas groom each other. I have wanted for so long to go beyond the vanity and ego of appearance. We want to be seen and yet, most people see only themselves. I think my desire goes beyond the superficial. But in America we revere the surface. I want to be acknowledged and understood; I want to be appreciated. But isn't this true for most of us?

I watch young teen boys attending our alternative neighborhood high school skateboarding and smoking near my house. They want to be cool. One kid smokes, pauses, straightens his backpack, smokes. He waits. He wants to be later to school than the rest. We time our daily activities to coincide with what's in fashion. Being hip, however, is taking away our authenticity.

My dear husband tells me I am thoroughly authentic. He says I can't help but be myself. This need to be honest and open has gotten me in plenty of trouble. My outsider status is a badge worn proudly but can be a scarlet O. For I have trouble being honest with myself. The mirror's truth is I do want to be an insider. Do I want recognized fame and fortune? Perhaps, just a little.

I am running around the circle of present time. My aging face and body is here to stay. I don't want to be sculpted anew. I don't want my face to be lifted. I don't want my beautiful silver hair to return to black. I have been afraid to die and I know I am afraid to get old. I truly don't want more wrinkles, but I don't want to deny who I am either. Am I stupid or brave to go against make-up and fashion? I remember trying make-up in junior high. I didn't have the skill or patience then. I discovered in my sixties that outlining my eyes gives me a brighter appearance and so I have given in. But my lips are too narrow for lipstick and though continually searching for the right haircut for thinning hair, my silver white hair has grown on me.

Ingrained in our American culture is that we women are never satisfied with how we look. Not even the most beautiful feels comfortable in her skin. I have asked many gorgeous women if they know they are beautiful and most do not. If only they knew how lucky they are. Or is it lucky? We can never understand someone else from the outside and getting to the inside can be a challenge. I talk freely about beauty and aging. I talk freely about my death and aging fears. And this is what I believe is needed: a voice given, honest words written about each stage of this living progression. I want aging women to not always be staring into their closets. I want them to come out.

© 2012

Road Trip

I'm seeing one huge pelican and then another swooping and making a half circle arc in front of me. A feeling of effervescent ecstasy slowly rises to the top of my head. Pelicans...have I ever seen pelicans before? Dan and I have found a bench along the Santa Barbara strand overlooking the Pacific Ocean. We are resting after taking a nostalgic walking tour of the city where I once lived. We had lunch at this scrumptious Italian Cafe, the former Copper Coffee Pot, one of my old writing/study haunts. Nothing and everything stays the same. My first studio apartment, located in a quaint Victorian complex, The Magnolia, near the downtown park, appears, however, to have been frozen in time. It is eerily quiet. Where is 90 year old Willie doing yoga handstands on the lawn? Where are Meghan and Shauna sitting outside on their miniature deck sipping tea? Where is my neighbor Jenny, who pierced my ears? Presumably, these people in my former life moved on decades ago.

I don't want to return to my college and soul searching, twenty-something years, though I keep flashing to the fact my own daughter is the age I was then. Weird! Our California road trip is about people, youthful memories and grown-up insights. Dan and I might as well have been kids when we met; and then poof: here we are full blown adults in our sixties. We met in Ojai, up in the hills about 45 minutes from Santa Barbara, a major stopping point on our journey. We are staying several days with friends, first, the former remarried husband, and then the former remarried wife. But back to those pelicans. I thought our trip was mainly going to be about people and not places. But I am wrong. Each place has brought me a visual gift of wild and natural beauty...like those hold-your-breath pelicans.

As we make our way through the narrow high mountain roads towards Ojai, it is as if I am seeing this landscape for the first time. Having worked part-time at one of its private schools, having met Dan at that school, I drove this path a hundred times. But this September summer beauty whizzing past the car window is indescribable. We have climbed inside an enclosed hilly canyon of paradise which keeps opening up to these scenes of three dimensional splendor: jagged cliffs, bowls of greenery, and serene, eternal skies. Ojai has been equated with a spiritual Shangra La, and it is still thick with theosophists. As a college student, I came here frequently to hear Krishnamurti speak in its parks.

At Dennis's house, I meet and immediately like his new wife Meredy. Before dinner we are taken on a dog-walk up along one of those hills I saw through my car window. As we walk and talk, I feel my feet touching this amazing land. It is hot and I am sweating. The town of Ojai is small; one long, yuppified street. There are remnants of the orange groves along which Dan and I used to run. Kathy and Allyn's rental is in a posh neighborhood and makes Dennis and Meredy's sprawling tract home look rather earthy. Kathy beams through the front door window as she sees our faces. Decades-old friends whom we haven't seen in over a decade. E-mail and the telephone can't replace pure physical contact. Kathy has a manicured, cascading waterfall in her back garden, but this doesn't seem to ease the feeling that I have lost contact with nature. It isn't until the next morning when Kathy takes us for a walk through a neighborhood access only, corral-like open meadow that the natural contact resumes. I find that talking outside, talking in wilder and more primitive places loosens people's inhibitions.

That Dan and I are in rugged Ojai after spending two feet-burning days walking and visiting with friends in bustling, downtown San Francisco and Oakland, shocks us. We are like birds making our way south for the winter, flying through one habitat after another.

Leaving Ojai, we skim along the coastal highway to Dan's mom's house which is a half block away from the Hermosa Beach Strand. Dan's mother and younger sixty year old brother live together and always have since their father's death, at age 45. They resemble a grouchy, long-married couple who know they need each other to survive. Dan's mom has a tremendous heart, beating inside a neglected eight-five year old body. The television is on every waking moment, and so to find solace we take walks along the strand or walks through this now more upscale beach town to our usual coffee place for breakfast.

Our daughter wants to see grandma, so we fly her down for the weekend. After she arrives I feel complete. It is hot, even at the beach...record highs in Los Angeles. Mid-morning, the daughter and I go for a bike ride, riding fast along the sandy, increasingly peopled shores. There are huge tankers far out on the glassy waters looking more like toy boats. There are rows and rows of volleyball nets with groups of players arriving at every one. There are boy scouts doing their duty on beach clean-up day. My daughter rides faster, and I try to keep up. The sky is unlimited if I look north, but a stack of smoke is rising to the east. We stop and walk our bikes onto a pier and see surfers paddling for waves. It's a normal day at the beach, but it's totally different from our Eugene, Oregon home environment.

At one place where bikes must be carried up the steps, with difficulty I begin lifting my bike. But then this incredibly nice gentleman says, “Let me help you.” I thank him profusely and he jokes that he'll be happy to carry my bike all the way to Starbucks! As I hop back on my bike, I wonder if this is what it means to be a senior citizen? I like the respect and care but hope I can be an agile aging specimen. The daughter keeps turning around and asking me if I'm OK. “Yes, yes,” I tell her as I'm catching my breath and wiping away the heat induced-sweat. When I say “I love this,” what I am really saying is “I love being with you.”

In the afternoon Dan's sister and her partner, Mary, arrive and we all head down to the beach with our beach chairs and umbrellas. All the water people, myself and Mary excluded, go body surfing. I sit and watch the expansive horizon and see what appears to be seal heads bobbing up and down in the waters. Later we are given this habitat's gift: a pod of playfully frolicking dolphins swim merrily by my beloved human swimmers and can be seen from the shore. I am once again elated...dolphins are rarely seen so close to this Pacific Coast civilization. I scan the waters for more surprises but all I can focus upon is my beautiful, lanky daughter and dripping wet husband, both of whom I love beyond measure. They are so alike in temperament, I think, and can feel myself edging towards an outsider frame of mind.

Is it a burden to be full of sensitivities and mental meanderings? Is it a burden to have to put all experiences, all musings into spoken and written words? I so admire the quiet nature of my family. My husband and daughter have no need to speak. Their inward contemplations are enough. My enthusiastic energy can't be contained.

Like a taunt yet subtle rubber band, our eleven days of travel have stretched us far and away from our home and back again. From wall-to-wall peopled big city to quiet as a pin-drop mountain oasis, from one upscale California beach town to another, we have opened our hearts to and rejuvenated our minds with old friends and family. On our last afternoon in Hermosa, we set up the gigantic umbrella, wipe off the lounge chairs and help Grandma and her walker make their way around the side of the house to this front yard respite. In the thirty or so years I have known Dan's mother, she has never sat outside with us. But here we all are: brother, sister, partner, Dan, wife and daughter, Dan's mother, my daughter's grandmother, sitting facing a view of the ocean rising above the sand. It is a miracle, this short span of living we do. It is a miracle to be able to encounter the surprises nature presents. It is a miracle, simply to be together, sitting side by side with those we love.

(c) 2012

Are We Better Off?

The primary question of this election season is “Am I better off in 2012?” Jogging my memory back to the years between 2004 through 2008, I remember President George Bush neglecting one war, and, without true provocation, getting us into another war. Bush started his first term with a debt-free budget, and at the end of his second term, we were at least a trillion dollars in debt. Being the proud parent of a lesbian daughter, I never felt that a welcome mat was placed outside the Bush White House for her. Our LGBTQ soldiers were fighting in these wars for a beloved country who told them to keep their authentic selves hidden. Discrimination towards women in the work place was being ignored. Broad tax cuts were initiated for the wealthiest Americans while ignoring the right that all our citizens have access to health care.

When Obama was elected President I told my daughter: “Now I can give you a future.” But change is rarely a snap, especially when a country is going through economic hardship. True change takes time. But despite a mountain of political obstacles, Obama has kept many of his promises: He has gotten us out of the Iraqi war and will get us out of Afghanistan during his second term. He has given our LGBTQ soldiers dignity and respect by getting rid of Don't Ask Don't Tell. The White House welcomes my daughter as a treasured American citizen with all the rights of every other American citizen. One of the first acts Obama signed was the Lilly Ledbetter Act against discrimination in the workplace for women. Obama tackled the economy through financial regulation and auto/teacher/fireman job saving and job creation. He managed to pass a Health Care Law that needs some revision but will guarantee all a healthier life, including my 23 year old daughter.

Here in Oregon I travel by men and women working daily on our highways and bridges; I see construction workers revitalizing our downtown; I applaud the Occupy Movement for waking us up to our homeless/poverty problems and their drive for more permanent homeless transition camps and low cost/free health clinics. Obama knows that as a country we have a long way to go politically, economically and morally: The rich absolutely need to pay their fair share; we need to decrease poverty and homelessness; our economy can't take a new war in Iran. I'm not sure Romney gets it. Am I better off? With an intelligent, thoughtful, compassionate President who is fighting for my daughter, myself, our soldiers, our lower and middle classes, our children, you bet I am. Please vote!

© 2012

What the Thieves Left Behind

On returning home from a lovely early evening celebration of my husband's birthday, I entered the kitchen and noticed the door to our daughter's attic room ajar. Hadn't that door been closed when we left? Then I heard Dan's voice from our bedroom: “We've been robbed!” Clothes were strewn haphazardly on the now askew bed, drawers were open, my lap top and cover were missing. In the front room, Dan's lap top plus power cord was also missing and in what we call the Star Room, our DVD's had been ransacked. The television, however, was intact and on the floor were the rejected DVD's. Why hadn't the thieves taken “The Big Lebowski” (too edgy) or “The Hours” (too femininely painful and dramatic) or “Prairie Home Companion” (too senior nostalgic)? Their fine taste, however, robbed us of our “Lord of the Rings” and “Harry Potter” collections and my all time favorite romance for English majors, “Possession.”

We were in shock. I could feel myself reacting from a deep place of calm numbness. Nothing appeared to be ruined but our bedroom screen and our privacy. But slowly we discovered the pervasiveness of this theft. The fire proof yet unlocked strongbox at the bottom of the attic ladder was missing. Inside were our passports, our birth certificates, my financial statements and possibly my social security card. Our dear daughter, who gave us her undivided long distance support via telephone, asked us if our marriage license was also taken. Gratefully, the marriage license remained snugly tucked inside the marriage photo album. “Don't touch anything,” stated the police dispatcher. All I wanted to do was clean up the mess and rid the house of the invasive vibes. But instead we waited and we waited and we talked and talked.

What does it mean to lose a lap top? I forget that the virtual world of my writing is not as real as I make it out to be. I see the words flowing on the page and think they will always be there. I've made hard copies of my essays in the past but here is where procrastination plays its evil music. I hadn't backed up my online journal recently or some of the essays not published on my blog. Words lost. I mused that this only meant my daughter would have less ramblings to read upon my death. To be honest, one of my yearnings for a daughter was to bequeath her my journals. Who else could I leave them to? Who else might be willing to read or skim them?

Dan and I continued to wait up for the police. Finally, around midnight, we climbed the rickety wooden ladder to our daughter's futon bed. Just as we lay our heads upon the pillows, the phone rang downstairs. I rushed to answer it. On this Friday evening at the start of a city wide celebration the police had been preoccupied with an abundance of crimes. So tomorrow morning we would report our theft again.

In the morning things don't look brighter after a break-in, they just look clearer. We listed our tasks: contact credit bureaus, cancel passports, talk with insurance agent, write down missing items and monetary amount,replace screen, assess and further secure house, etc. Most people have dealt with thievery at one time or another. Dan and I both admit our negligence in leaving windows and blinds open on a warm summer evening. We were home by 7:30 p.m., but obviously these thieves were watching. For the first time in probably twenty years both houses on either side of us were without their residents and we were sadly without our aged dog, Lacey. The downtown celebration was loudly booming, while neighborhoods were naively quiet. Hindsight is golden.

It has been nearly a month since this robbery and as I sit here writing on my new lap top, I feel awkward and strange. I've avoided writing even on paper. Is there a lingering fear my words are meaningless and will be swiftly taken away? Or does it also have to do with a daughter's wish? Just before the break in, our daughter drove down for a combined celebration of what we call “Birthday Season.” She, Dan and I all have our birthdays a week a part. After a moment of unusual for her intimate candor, the daughter tells me she wants to share more in the future but she doesn't want me to write about it. I can't explain how my writing has more to do with me than her. But I promise to uphold her wish.

I discover silence is more harmful than loss. I tell friends about the events of the 24th of August and I state that for me and my writing it will be a new beginning. I don't miss easily replaceable stuff. But I do miss my source of personal creativity.

I vow to close the windows and replace worn out screen doors; we will add deadbolt locks to the back doors. But I will not close my heart. After thoroughly and ritually cleansing my house, I find I have also cleansed my compassion. These possibly drug addicted thieves were desperate, even taking the upstairs penny jar. Are their lives so sad and dependent upon such wrongful acts? Dan and I live simply and yet we know our culture applauds wealth and constant accumulation of material goods. What the robbers couldn't take is my gratitude for all that I have: a bed to sleep in, a roof to stay dry and warm, a garden to munch on. They might have erased thousands of words, but what they have gifted me with is a release of the past and a focus on the present; they have given me a restart, a revising of my creative pursuits. I will continue to open the windows when it is warm. I will continue to have new thoughts and imaginings. And I will promise myself to express these thoughts with new words.

(c) 2012

Mountain Lion Eyes

Growing up with a spontaneous, moody, tall tale talking father made my childhood both rich and uncertain. For example, in early elementary school, I came home one day to find my dad had procured a kitten. This was no ordinary kitten. My father told us her name was Haywee and he had been given Haywee as a present from an “Indian Chief.” At this time my father worked for the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. Out on an isolated stretch of land far up the Angeles Crest Highway, he had come upon this authentic “Indian Chief.” They talked as two open-hearted men might, my father sharing in loving detail about his three small children. Taking an immediate liking to my handsome, gregarious, six-foot father, the Chief wanted to give him a present for his children. Thus, Haywee became a part of our household.

As a self-employed landscaper, the love of nature and gardens was in my Dad's blood. Our great grandfather was the director of the Hamburg Botanical Gardens in Germany. One of our traditional, unplanned weekend excursions was to La Canada's Descanso Gardens. These acres of groomed yet wild public terrain had once been privately owned. Dad would throw together a bag of cheese, bread and fruit plus an added sack of duck food and off we would tramp. The gardens were free and entering by the main gate, we would make our way first to the small duck pond. From there we hiked through large, towering trees, open meadows and spacious rose gardens to enter the sumptuous former residence on the grounds. As we kids crossed small man-made bridges, sneaked in an out of bushes, Dad would spout his natural wisdom, never failing to point out this bird or that squirrel. Dad loved taking us off Descanso's beaten paths. But one visit brought us in contact with poison oak. Though we showered immediately upon coming home, we all broke out with the dreaded itchy rash. Mom railed and Dad felt slightly contrite, but further adventures continued.

The adventure that gave our family the happiest moments was the only vacation my father could organize and afford to take. It was this camping trip which brought us in contact with the mountain lion eyes and initiated us into the “Koch Warrior Tribe.”

Dad bought a huge burlap tent, outdoor cooking utensils and stove, plus five flannel-lined sleeping bags. These items were loaded into the back of Dad's Chevy pick-up truck, we were squeezed into the cab and off we went one summer to Sequoia and Yosemite National Parks. Nearing Sequoia we drove our car right through the hollowed trunk of a gigantic redwood. We found a camp site on the edge of Sequoia's mountains, forested by further towering, ancient redwoods. It was our first camping adventure, but Dad seemed to know what to do. Mom became the primary cook and keeper of our camping quarters. Dad was the “scout leader.” Within hours of our arrival we were back in the truck, driving the rim of Sequoia's wilderness. For every animal/bird we spotted Dad paid us a dollar in spending money. We saw a family of quail waddling along the highway, chipmunks scurrying towards the tree tops, innumerable birds and eventually bears!

In the dark pre-morning, bears arrived at our site looking for food. While Dad and Mom slept in the tent, we children cuddled in the back of the pick-up. Lumbering down from the forest, two bears began creating an awful racket with the metal garbage cans. “Bears,” Mom nervously exclaimed, shaking Dad's shoulder. Groggily replying, “Uh Huh,” Dad rolled over and fell back asleep. We children sucked in all possible breath and sound and with no food left on our picnic table, the bears departed. When we went to cook breakfast the next morning, we found two plastic drinking cups with teeth marks on their rims. We kept those souvenir cups for years.

On our final Sequoia evening, Dad took us on a flashlight walk. As we hiked along a dusty road, we begin to hear strange noises. Our imaginations made these noises into growls and the growls into fierce human eating prey. “Quiet! Turn off your flashlights,” Dad suddenly warned. He led us to the edge of a small cliff, pointing down into what appeared to be a dark, redwood and fern lined cavern. To this day we swear we saw two bright yellow glowing eyes staring up at us. Dad said those were mountain lion eyes and we had hit the jack pot! Not one gasp of air escaped our little bodies as we stared and stared.

If we thought Sequoia had been an incredible adventure, Yosemite proved to be beyond belief. This was the mid-fifties, when camping was allowed right in the heart of the National Park and “fire falls” was the evening entertainment. Our camp ground formed a circle around this huge, lush meadow. Once the tent was up, we wandered over to the lodge to see what activities would entice us. Dad booked us on a half-day donkey ride and I remember wishing I could stay on my donkey forever. We hiked, we roasted marshmallows; we played with our neighboring campers. This was a kids' summer paradise.

During our first day, Dad repeatedly mentioned there would be a special evening ceremony. After supper, as twilight colored the meadow, Dad gathered us around the camp fire. He told us we had been extremely brave when the bears visited us in Sequoia; he added we had become expert animal watchers and outdoor enthusiasts. It was time for our initiation as Tribe Warriors.

We entered a darkened tent one at a time and met Dad's loving, flashlight glowing face. Sitting cross legged, speaking a strange native tongue, he placed a twine roped wooden, glazed medallion around each of our necks. This Sequoia medallion had a carved black bear face on the front. With this necklace we became initiated into the KOCH Tribe. We each received an appropriate name: I was Dancing Girl; my father was Chief Meat and Potatoes; my sister was Singing Princess; my brother was Chief Droopy Drawers; and my mother was Laughing Maiden. We treasured these medallions as if they were made of gold, and slept proudly that night.

Like the climax to a fairytale, on our final camp evening, sunset brought deer down from the hills. One young stag with new budding antlers walked into our camp site. Dad signaled us to step softly. The deer showed no fear as we cautiously surrounded him for a memorable photo. I remember being mesmerized by his elegant beauty and loving deer ever since. As darkness descended all the human families gathered to sit on blankets on the open meadow. The sky was pitch black with no flashlight or lantern lit. Our eyes strained towards the top of the monstrous, jagged mountain peering down upon us. There as if on a high wire were tiny men arranging the “show.” In an instant we saw chunks of fire streaming down the mountain, becoming a falling fountain of fire.

We never went camping again. In our teen years we once did a spontaneous weekend excursion to Sequoia/Yosemite, staying in cabins, but it wasn't the same. We grew up and Dad grew older. His stories became rants and sermons. As his adult children left, he didn't know how to hold onto us. Despite my father's dysfunction; despite my fears of him; despite our later conflicts during my college years, I want to remember the magical education he provided. I want to remember his youthful heart and yearning for a close, loving family. I want to remember his serene face whenever he was in a garden or a forest or a meadow. I want to remember the wisdom he shared with a then unresponsive teenager. And most of all I want to remember forever those yellow, glowing, mountain lion eyes.

© 2011

Simple Joy

(Published in Chicken Soup for the Soul Think Positive, 2010)

There are times I have sat in my small yet cozy home and wished for a larger living room, a tiled kitchen floor with a stainless steel glass top stove, and a new couch with matching chair and ottoman. But I have come to realize through raising a child and having family and friend gatherings that what matters is not the furnishings of my house but whether love seeps into every corner.

Over the years the hair shedding dog has slept on the couch in my absence, the latest kitten has repeatedly clawed the corners of the chair and cat pee and spit-ups have been cleaned up a thousand times from rugs, floors and down comforters. With an only child and the raising of home day care children for eight years, my house has that lived-in look. I admit I went through a period of railing against the universe each time I cleaned up the next mess: Why can't I have anything nice? All I want is simple elegance! Little did I know then that the lessons I needed to learn were just around the corner.

As the recession hit, we have felt lucky our small home is paid for. We have felt deep gratitude for our jobs and for our ability to save money for our daughter's college, although out-of-state tuition was killing us. Then our daughter recently decided to move back to Oregon to live with her then girl friend who was studying in Portland. Suddenly, my year of constant saving made me rich.

After going through a clothing and shoe shopping spree, I began reading, meditating, walking, writing. With my daughter gone, my small empty nest loomed large, surrounding me with mothering memories. Tears filled the corners. I had to begin again. I had to reinvent myself. I felt overwhelmed by my wants and needs. Yes, let's hire this guy at my husband's work to tile the kitchen floor. Let's redecorate the bathroom. Let's dig up the side garden and put in a new lawn. The house projects became endless and my self contentment diminished with each new décor I envisioned.

We made a visit to Portland, to see our daughter's new living space. We parked across the street from the five-story red brick building. There was an old fashioned broken buzzer by the locked front door, so we pulled out a cell phone to tell her we had arrived. She came downstairs and led us up to their studio on the second floor.

We entered their combined living room/bedroom which had a bed and a shelf for the non-functional television and their modest DVD collection. “Remember those large pillows in your bedroom that grandma made? They might be great for your floor in front of the television.” Her face lit up, “Yeah,” she replied. On the left side of this one open space was a narrow kitchen, capable of only one person cooking at a time. They had a small, square card table, but no chairs. On the right side was a decadently large (in comparison to the other dimensions of their studio) walk-in closet with two tall dressers and one long wooden rod for hanging their clothes. Going through this closet, one got to the tiny bathroom which had the usual wall sink, toilet and claw-foot tub with a removable shower device. Our daughter absolutely praised this bathroom because she had lived in a college dorm where the only bathroom on her floor seemed miles down the hallway.

Her girl friend had spread out a simple lunch for us of cheese, crackers and fresh fruit, plus goblets of mineral water. We had wanted to take them out to lunch, but this thoughtfulness touched us. “We don't have chairs,” they laughed as we sat on the bed or the floor to eat. The walls were covered with their own drawings; I recognized our daughter's batik cloth print covering one window shade; the vase of flowers I brought now added color to a shelf by the stove.

Memories floated to the surface of when my husband and I had first met. He stayed with me in my small studio, even smaller than the one we now ate lunch in. We clicked glasses and made toasts. I swallowed their every loving glance; I drank in their oozing of contentment, their bubbling of gratitude for simply being together.

Since their apartment happened to be located in a lovely neighborhood, a walk seemed natural. There was the bustling, trendy Hawthorne Boulevard to our right as we walked out the main entrance. We strolled the opposite way through Victorian style houses towards a meridian circle rose garden. I was captivated by the lushness of this garden which apparently was one of four, one at each corner of the tic-tac-toe-like crossed streets. The surrounding homes were a combination of well-worn two-story mansions and more modest one-story residences.

Across the garden was one such mauve-colored Craftsman. They were having a garage sale out front and there prominently displayed were a pair of chairs. My daughter and I simultaneously quickened our stride and were practically running to sit in those chairs. Each carved wood chair had a music staff design on the back and deep rose colored tweed cushions. They were perfect; my daughter and her girl friend are musicians. “We want to buy them for your apartment,” my husband and I said excitedly. The asking price was $35 for both chairs! What a bargain, we thought as we wrote the owner a check.

We proudly carried the chairs through the rose garden, down the neighborhood streets, through the halls and up the stairs to their studio. We placed the chairs by their table and Aspen and her girl friend immediately sat down in them. “We can dine elegantly now,” they teased. I have rarely felt happier than I did at that moment observing the glow on my daughter's face. It is all really so simple, I thought to myself.

When my husband of thirty years and I first met, we packed up all we owned in his van and my station wagon and drove north to Eugene, Oregon. When we rented our cozy one-bedroom duplex, we only had my childhood rocking chair and his childhood bureau drawers. We slept on a foam pad. I bought yarn and braided a rug. We found a used kitchen table and chairs plus a two person couch. My husband made my desk by copying one I wanted at a furniture store. I don't think I have ever felt more fulfilled than I was during those early years. We filled our lives with friends. We filled our lives with family. We filled our lives with love. Sitting in my daughter's Portland studio, watching her radiating happiness, I remembered and reminded myself to treasure the simplicity in my own life.

© 2010

What's for Breakfast?

Every morning when I wake up, I tiptoe around the house and open the curtains, turn on the heater, and fold up the futon bed. In the dusky silence I listen to my three year old daughter Aspen's breathing or hear her small voice trailing down the hallway, “Mommy, I want to nurse. What's for breakfast? Where's Daddy?”

We cuddle together on the green rocking chair as the sun slowly filters in through the windowpanes. “Look, Mommy, it's the morning light.” I dress myself and then help Aspen. We make sure to go potty and then she sits at the kitchen table with her stuffed friend f the day, waiting for her juice and cereal and Mommy's company.

A mother's life is full of simple, ordinary tasks, I think to myself. Many days I love opening the house to light and these daily routines. At night I ceremoniously draw the day to an end by closing the curtains, turning on artificial lights to continue the warmth and glow of the sun, and putting away the remnants o the day's activities.

Evenings bring quiet times: reading or acting out stories, building huge towers or other magical Lego structures, treating ourselves to popcorn or ice cream, listening to our favorite music. Again, simplicity.

Is this life, I mean the very essence of life? IS washing dishes, doing laundry, wiping a runny nose, hugging away pain, hugging in joy, reading stories, telling stories, licking each other's faces like slimy slugs, cooking, IT? Is this the warp that holds the fabric of life together?

Put on pajamas, brush teeth, give good night kisses and hugs, tuck ourselves in for another dream-filled sleep. Where is the deeper meaning of why I am here on this earth? It seems like I've been searching all of my life for something more, something that's really important that I'm supposed to be doing.

I wake up in the middle of the night next to the rhythmic breathing of my husband. The house radiates a humming quiet until I hear Aspen cough. I crawl across the bed and move toward the entrance to her room. I peer in and see her round, innocent face framed by her cloud-like pillow. Her arms are cuddling her brown stuffed horse. A halo of peace and contentment surround her. I want to crawl into her bed and hug her tight. I want to crawl into her bed and become three years old again.

“Where does the sun go at night, Mommy?” Nothing is simple or mundane to Aspen. Everything is wondrous and totally new.

I go to the bathroom. Let out the cat. Look up at the moon and notice the light reflecting off the lilac bushes. I feel a chill in the air, but buds are forming and it will soon be spring.

I crawl back into bed and feel the warmth of my partner's body. I snuggle closer to him. Have I told him lately how much I love him? How much I love being a part of our family?

Our lives are simple, we often tell each other: we parent and we work. I hear movement from our daughter's room. Little feet patter across the floor to our room. She drags her pillow and stuffed horse over the middle of our bed and places them and eventually herself between her father and me. I kiss her and tuck her in We sleep.

In the morning I quietly get up and open the curtains and turn on the heater. I let in the cat and feed her, put on some water to boil for tea and get dressed.

Looking out the front room window I notice a few people biking down the street. A professionally dressed woman walks briskly by on the sidewalk near our house. She stops for a moment to notice the flowers and vegetables in our garden. The school bus turns a corner; a few cars drive pass.

I hear Aspen's small voice in the background, “Mommy, what's for breakfast?”

And without hesitation I turn and tell her, “Life, dear heart, life.”

© 1995

My Mother's Angels

As my mother entered her mid-eighties, she began feeling more dependent and anxious. She occasionally had trouble falling asleep at night, and worried she would miss taking her daily medications at the appropriate times. My sister lived nearby, and fielded many a late night telephone call. I unfortunately lived several states away. Between us we sisters decided to give my mother a regular, evening bedtime call. I offered to call Mom four times a week. While the intent of these calls was to try to give peace to my mother, it turned out that these calls strengthened the calm, loving bond growing between my mother and me during her last years.

We began with a long, drawn out, almost comic “good evening.” I could feel my mother smile as our phone ritual commenced. At first I asked about her day, but this often led to her ailment complaints or to describing the misbehaviors of other residents, i.e., daring to sit where my mother always sat in the dining room. I started twisting this question around so as to have my mother tell me about two positive happenings and I would do the same. Weather was always a favorite topic, with her Arizona sun being too strong and my Oregon sun too scarce. Slowly, though, as I listened to my mother's concerns about meeting her schedule or having energy to exercise, I sensed what my mother needed was not a physical make-over but a spiritual lift.

My angel meditations started quite unconsciously. Instead of simply wishing my mother a good night's rest, I remembered the sleep meditations I used to do for my daughter when she was young. These meditations involved fantasy dream gardens, moon light and special stars. For my sometimes lonely mother I sensed she would love a nightly companion like a comforting, gently rocking earth mother. For my traditional mother I knew giving her her own special angels would be the best bedtime gift.

At the end of each call our routine became for me to gather my mother's angels around her bed.

“What do these angels look like,” asked my mom.”

“They're colorfully dressed in blues and greens with shimmering silver wings.”

“What about purple? I love purple.”

“You're right, Mom. Some of the angels have purple and pink flowing gowns.”

These angels would then protectively flutter their wings above my mother's bed and sing her a soothing lullaby. My mother's angels always promised her a restful slumber and wonderful dreams. Later the angels accompanied my mother during her days, giving her a contented, compassionate glow to her daily experiences. After several months of our nightly ritual, I noticed a decided lifting of my mother's emotional mood. She now easily found several positive events to relate about her day. The love between us increased as our “I love yous” became more soulful and deep.

To aid in my mother's meditations, I sent a sweet angel sculpture for her night stand. For her 90th birthday I knew a necklace with a silver angel charm would be just the thing. My mother gushed with praise and gratitude when the necklace arrived: “Oh, Vicki, it's so beautiful, it's so perfect. It's my favorite necklace.”

My mother wore her special angel necklace every day until she passed. As I sat by my dying mother's bed, I sang her favorite Broadway show tunes and shared with her that the angels were present surrounding her bed one last time. And I swear I could actually feel the presence of these comforting souls with me there in the room.

The angel necklace became my treasured remembrance of our loving last years' conversations. I have it hanging on a favorite picture of my younger, smiling mother.

© 2012

A Rabbit Story

A few weeks ago I got to participate in a drumming and story circle with a Shoshone elder. This man, living on cooperatively owned land, gave me a tour of their projects: a totally solar bathroom, harnessing the creek water for garden irrigation and as a future power source, greenhouses and outside plots growing all their food. The rough-hewn, high ceiling lodge where we met felt beautifully placed and open to the surrounding, natural world. I sat on the couch scanning the posters, books and videos. The presence of a DVD player and a computer didn't correspond to my image of old world timelessness, but this did not really detract from the experience. I continued sitting quietly, and the huge ceremonial drum, placed at the center of the room, called out to me.

Wake up and listen!

I am an impatient soul, yearning to have my wisdom given in huge bites, but I discerned that, on this day, the clock had been stilled and I would have to let go. Scattered, small conversations about movies and technology, reasons for people's absences, the introduction of the elder's new companion from Germany and his recent European adventures flowed across the room. Brought here by a dear, Native friend, she bantered and joked while I continued to observe and tamp down my restlessness.

Wake up!

Without “beginning” in the traditional term of the word, I realized after several spoken sentences, that the elder was telling this Sunday's story.

Live without expectations!

I had expected a tale but what I got was a truth. Capturing a long ago personal, historic moment, the elder began remembering the time when as a child with his parents and other Native tribal members they decided to purchase their own Nevada land.

Slow down!

Disgusted with modern world's fast paced, oblivious, destructive nature, this tribe's vision was to try and live on Mother Earth in the older ways. The more I tuned into this elder's words, the more I realized he could easily be speaking about today's America. The elder's voice wove in and out as he described how a seemingly waterless land chose them, how they built structures and gardens, how they hauled in animals and eventually found water, fertility and abundance.

Question old ways!

The key to this story's treasure, however, were the rabbits. Previously, the tribe had raised hundreds of rabbits all kept in gigantic cages. Transporting these rabbits to the land was no easy feat, and once the farm was set up, the tribal members started questioning their own old ways. Why are the sheep free and the rabbits contained? Why is a desert landscape thought to be arid and dry and impotent? And perhaps the biggest question of them all: Is success connected to the amount of money and material goods accumulated or is there something buried beneath these cravings that needs sprouting?

Overcome habits before change can happen!

The tribe opened the rabbit cages, and at first the rabbits didn't move. How often are we bound by habit and live unawares? But slowly, the rabbits ventured forth and claimed their free place on the land. The elder's story threaded his wisdom into a colorful weaving: This Nevada experiment flourished for through the tribe's hard work a plenitude of food, meat, water and shelter and a plenitude of earthly care and human love were created.

Honor tradition and when necessary break with tradition!

As the story ended, my thoughts wandered to my own family's rabbit story. Our daughter's preschool rabbits had babies and we brought a black and white one home. We named her Licorice and at first we had her in a cage. As we couldn't stand curbing Licorice's freedom, we broke with pet tradition and set her free in our side garden. Creating a fence between Licorice and our dog, Lacey, we watched as Licorice slowly adapted her habitat to rabbit country. Burrows were dug under the deck, grass was munched and her wildness added frisky stubbornness to her character.

For the first few years of her life we brought Licorice inside to our laundry room every night. Then, especially in the summer, she refused to be herded inside. We called it bunny hockey: we used a broom and all three of us tried to escort her to the laundry room. Unfortunately, it soon became easier in the warm weather to allow her to remain outside. I say unfortunately, because she died a violent death via a visiting, opportunistic raccoon. My daughter wept deeply and we wondered why Licorice was unable to escape to her burrow. But we told ourselves she lived a more natural rabbit's life.

What this Native elder's story tells, as does our Licorice story, is that we have to be willing to try something new, no matter how ingrained we might be in old traditional methods. Sometimes these new ways added to honoring the old ways bring fulfillment as with the Natives' abundant crops and animal production; sometimes in breaking with tradition the fulfillment is a matter of perspective as with our dear Licorice living a shorter but happier wild rabbit's life.

Give gratitude!

I smiled inside as the elder and the circle members whispered “Ho!” I bowed in gratitude to the elder, feeling blessed by his insightful story. Then I leaned in towards the ceremonial drum and whispered my thank you.

© 2012

Connection

(written in 2005)

525,600 minutes, 525,600 moments so dear. 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year? . . . Measure in love. Seasons of love. Rent

When my daughter was four years old, I remember sitting with her in my inherited green cushioned maple rocking chair. She was comfortably folded in my lap, her head resting on my chest. We were reading one of her favorite children's books, The Clown of God. The house was whisper quiet and we both felt not only connected to the book we were reading, but to each other.

The early years of raising my daughter were sweet and endearing, full of tender affection. Our bond deeply embedded itself in my soul. Experienced mothers told me to treasure this bond. And I have. Experienced parents told me she would be a teenager before I could ever imagine it so. And this has become true. I am now the mother of a fifteen-year-old who, rising two inches above me, has more difficulty folding herself onto my lap...Not that this incredibly beautiful, auburn-haired, blue-eyed daughter would ever be caught dead being physically close to her mother.

During my daughter's twelfth and thirteenth year, I was in complete denial. I felt that we would always be close. I felt that we would never experience the distance often described between a mother and her teenager. I have been forced to eat my naïve words. Delighted by the infinite love I have felt for my child, I have also been frozen in sadness by the chasm that appears to have suddenly come between us. Slowly I would learn that the love and deep connection are there only in a less visible form.

About a month before the arrival at our performing arts center of the Broadway musical “Rent,” my daughter approached me about going to this play together. I knew little about this show's storyline, but my daughter's eagerness was all I needed to say yes. She already knew about its “mature” themes of Aids, homelessness, drug use, Gay issues and romance. I always trust my daughter's instincts so bought two tickets. When asked if she wanted to bring her dad or another friend, she strongly underscored she wanted it to be just her and I.

The excitement bubbled up weeks before our planned date. We extended the seeing of the musical to include dinner at a favorite restaurant. We looked up “Rent's” plot on the Internet and read reviews of the play in our local newspaper. I was so flattered by my daughter's attention in preparing for our outing that I would do almost anything to make it “perfect.”

Our “Rent” day came. We left early. Both my daughter and I love to climb the stairs to the second floor of the theater and people-watch before we enter a show. We stood scanning the crowds, observing quite a number of young people entering with their parents or friends. Our seats were in the upper balcony, but we had a clear, centered view of the stage. Having forgotten my reading glasses, my daughter read out loud the program's synopsis. As I leaned in towards her, I could see how happy she was. The play began.

The actors randomly appeared on stage in a scene that depicted “real life” slum tenement conditions and began singing the theme song, “Rent.” My daughter touched my arm. For the first part of the performance I felt a bit lost and the sound was distorted. I also quickly noted how adult this play would be and had a moment of regret. Had I done the right thing in bringing my fifteen year old to such a play? The sound eventually cleared, my understanding was less confused and the magic of this real life drama drew me in.

By the end of the first half of “Rent” I was so engrossed I hardly noticed the few tears staining my cheek. What I saw in “Rent” was the youth culture my daughter would soon be part of. At fifteen she already knows about isolation and bullying. She already knows about the pressure to conform and the pressure to be tempted by destructive habits. As a Lesbian teenager she is aware she is a minority and not like other girls. The outer culture does not always speak to my daughter, but this Broadway musical did.

The second half completely captured my mental and emotional attention. As both Gay and straight couples developed their relationships I knew as I have always known that love is universal and non-discriminating.

My daughter and I didn't say a word. We didn't have to. I could tell we were both feeling the anguish of the deaths of loved ones, the despair of poverty, and the need to creatively be oneself no matter what. The end came much too soon. The applause soared and filled the quiet theater with triumph. This play proved: Obstacles could be overcome; division could eventually bring unity; isolation could bring connection. As my daughter and I walked up the aisle to the exit, we linked arms.

Our stroll back to our car was slow and lingering. We discussed the play. “Did you like it?” my daughter asked in a pleading voice. I answered with a resounding yes. I was honest about having a hard time in the beginning, but how by the second half I absolutely loved it. We spoke about our favorite lyrics and our favorite scenes. We drove to the restaurant glazed in awe. Once at the restaurant, we gradually became the teen daughter and her mother out to dinner. We ordered fun foods like french fries and garden burgers. My daughter wrapped herself in her more self-conscious persona. She stared in front of her expecting me to talk and not her. I put on the cheery mom persona; the one that tries to keep the one sided conversation going. Our faces were full of smiles and nods.

I was determined to relax and accept my quiet daughter. Upon reaching our car, she said, “Let's drive around and listen to music.” As we fastened our seat belts and turned on the CD, Lucinda Williams began belting out the lyrics to her song, “Words Fell,” only I heard, “Words Fail.” How appropriate, I thought to myself. We started driving and I mentioned, “I know when you first get your driver's license, I can see you cruising around like this.”

“Let's drive past my old middle school,” my daughter suggested. We drove up the hill around small winding curves and up another long hill until we reached the school she had just left last year. “It seems so small,” she blurted out. I drove extra slow. I was remembering her first day of sixth grade and how huge this school had been appeared to her.

We continued driving up into the hills beyond her old school. I continued listening to Lucinda Williams not as though she were speaking about her lover, but as though she were speaking for me about the love I have for my daughter. This love is so strong and yet during these teenage years so indescribably painful. We kept driving and as we did, I bit my lip to keep from crying. I brought my eyes to the outside world. When I caught the glistening of autumn's reds, oranges and yellows, heard the music blaring from the car radio and felt the presence of this nearly grown daughter close beside me, my heart filled to bursting.

As we drove, I had a revelation. I knew our hearts were touching; I knew we didn't need words; I knew she would always be my daughter and I would always be her mother. This connection we feel is deeply rooted and will withstand the teenage storms. Couldn't I be with this daughter of mine in the present moment wherever she happens to be? It sound so simple, but somehow the older our children become the less this simplicity is remembered. I know my tears emerge more readily as I watch my teenager become a young woman. Mostly they are tears of joy and amazement at how competent and compassionate my daughter has become. But they are also selfish tears because I will truly miss her when she is gone.

© 2012

Raising Our Lesbian Daughter

(written in 2008) My high school senior daughter came home last weekend from her Integrated Outdoor Program desert camping trip bubbling over with excitement. In this class, she has enthusiastically biked, rock-climbed, bouldered, and learned orienteering/survivor skills. She grew up with most of these activities, but shifted them aside during adolescence. As we sat around the kitchen table, she proudly told of her bouldering adventure. “I was the only girl who reached the top,” and of her fearless navigation through the narrow passageways to the end of Boyd Cave: “At one point I had to crawl on my stomach to get to the next opening. When we turned off our flashlights, it was totally dark.”

I am in awe of my daughter. Though I came through a typical fifties childhood and then stepped into a sixties consciousness raising women's group, my daughter has from the get-go been herself. We live in a gender-specific world: girls are encouraged to demurely shrink from adventure and risk, be quiet and polite; boys are encouraged to be adventurous, loud, athletic and to be protective of girls.

I had my daughter at forty-two and believed her dad and I could bring her up in an “open” manner. From the moment of conception I dearly wanted a girl. I wanted to pass on my journals, my growing-up-female experiences, my love of women's literature. When at the moment of her arrival her dad held her up and said, “It's a girl...I think,” little did I know this small being would be the one to redefine for her parents the meaning of that word “girl.”

Today it's called gender neutral parenting. Logging onto the Internet, I find scores of blogs and articles trying to assist socially aware, determined parents in raising their boys and girls beyond the stereotypes. But when we brought our baby home in 1989, all we knew was we wanted her not to be defined by gender. While dressed in blue, I held her in my arms as we entered a concert hall elevator. “Oh what an adorable boy,” the woman on my left cooed. As I dressed my toddler in brown overalls, I realize now, I was simply shifting her to the “other gender.”

Dress has been notoriously gender specific. As a preschooler, my daughter only wanted to wear dresses and tights. She refused jeans until one day I said, “These will be easier to play on the playground with.” Once in pants, my daughter has rarely turned back.

With toys and television, social media and peers spurting their continual influence, we weren't certain how to begin raising a daughter. We had dolls, stuffed animals, cars and trains; we had music, stories and time for jungle gyms and hiking. Our daughter took ballet classes and rock climbing; she was on soccer teams and took art classes.

I remember one summer when we had gotten our daughter involved in Ukrainian folk dancing. She came to me one practice and asked, “Why do the boys get to do the fun things like jumping and kicking?” She had noticed the girls were twirling and turning and not moving a whole lot. If her mother were braver she would have asked for kicking and jumping privileges for the girls. But this would have broken with a cultural tradition.

As new parents we made concessions. We wanted our child to fit in. But soon we learned to see our daughter simply as who she was. Having been raised in an extremely gender specific world, I fell for some of the stereotypes: I made frilly dresses for Christmas and dollhouse dolls for the playroom. I loved when she wanted longer hair and played dress up with jewelry and scarves. But I also loved when the boys visiting our house wore dresses too, played with her dollhouse and had longer hair. What became important was taking away the limitations for either gender. Unconsciously I found myself expanding the definitions of love and relationships. Around four my daughter asked me about love. “What does it mean to love someone, Mommy?” Without hesitation the following words poured out of my mouth: “To love means you really care about someone and you want to be with them. You can grow up and love a man like I have with your daddy or you can grow up and love a woman.” At the time this answer seemed so natural. Little did I know how appropriate it would turn out to be. Shortly before my daughter's fourteenth birthday, she sat me down on our couch and told me, “Mom, I think I am a Lesbian.” Again without skipping a beat I replied, “You've chosen the right parents.”

My daughter's “Queer-Identification” has pushed me to the next level of gender understanding. She currently prefers the word Queer over Lesbian but ideally would like no label. She has pointed out to me on several occasions that she is more than her sexuality. Her so openly and stubbornly being who she is, has encouraged her father and me to be who we are.

Her father does the cooking and grocery shopping; I do the gardening and schedule organizing. He does maintenance. I do cleaning. It's a mish-mash, sometimes fitting the gender stereotype, sometimes not. Sharing how gender specific her parents' upbringings were also gives our daughter perspective and can be a positive teaching tool: I had to wear skirts to high school and the vice principal made girls kneel down in the hallway to assure these skirts were the appropriate length; her dad wanted to participate in high school team sports but he didn't have the “masculine skills” and body image.

Joining PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians, Gays, Bisexuals, Intersex and Transgenders) assisted me further with my own “growing up process.” Immediately I met Annie and Anita, who have been partners for over twenty-five years; then I got to know Robert and Scott, who also have been together nearly thirty years. Slowly I began to see that my Queer daughter could like her heterosexual classmates have it all: love, marriage and family. As a PFLAG mother I have come to understand that the LGBITQ desire for marriage equality encourages all of us to break free from the confining masculine/feminine paradigm. How lovely no matter what our sexual orientation to be able to dress as we please, act as we please, simply love as we please.

I am in awe of my daughter. She has come through being teased, called a boy and turned away from the girls' bathroom by her elementary school peers because she had short hair. She wanted dearly to be a boy, not only because in our society boys have privileges, but also because her attraction to girls would be deemed “normal.” Her interest in women's strength and independence, her non-interest in “dumbing down” or “dressing to impress” have made her feel eccentric. In high school she refused to be closeted allowing herself to appear in a story in our daily newspaper with her then-girlfriend.

We sit around the kitchen table and my daughter's face beams with the bright confidence of knowing and loving who she is, as she entertains her parents with further adventures from her recent high school camping trip. She has taught her parents more than she will ever know about the meaning of gender. “Gender is overrated,” she once quipped to me.

As parents we have struggled to push the handy girl/boy labels aside. If I could rewind the tape and go back to the moment of this daughter's birth, I would love to hear my husband say, “It's a remarkable human being.!”

© 2012

Twins

Long long ago when I was single and my aging Uncle Bill decided to downsize and move in with my Aunt Davina, he gifted me two blue porcelain lamps with roses painted on the rounded stems and white shades. He also gave me a blue/brown oriental rug. The rug lasted only a decade, but forty years later the lamps have traveled with me to all my residences, and through all my life transitions. These elegant lamps always seemed out of place with my more down-to-earth décor.

The lamp shades eventually had to be replaced and then those new shades were torn by our rambunctious cats. The one lamp that graced my side living room table was twice toppled and semi-cracked by our infamously mischievous cat, Blackberry. When my in-home preschool concluded, when the daughter and her friends grew up, we slowly started redoing our home to suit our empty nest life. I kept the lamps even though they didn't blend with our new red couch, sage chair and red/sage rugs. But finally, I had to admit I wanted to let go of the past, the unconscious dictum of my biological family tree and to embrace my new present. So these lamps have been recycled to a new home.

To my surprise, shortly before my lamp giveaway, the memories of my aunt and especially my uncle began to resurface. Memories may be triggered by objects but these memories are never lost when the objects disappear. As a child, what was fascinating to me about my aunt and uncle was the fact that they were twins. Technically both were the first born; my later and last born mother was considered the spoiled baby. My Aunt Davina used to tell me she was the oldest and she certainly acted like a bossy, know-it-all first born. She, who never worked outside the home, was the one who labeled my working mother spoiled. My Uncle Bill did seem like a middle child in that his flamboyant, exuberant manner was determinedly overlooked by other family members.

From my years as a PFLAG mother with a beloved community of Gay friends, I would guess, and assume, really, that my uncle was Gay. How I wish he were alive today, for me to embrace him once again. There was never any doubt that I loved and revered my uncle, especially since our dramatic, musical,(he played the organ by heart) party hosting styles are similar. Close to my grandmother, somewhat at odds with my grandfather, my uncle never married and became the focus of snide, insinuating, remarks by my aunt's masculine, boisterous speaking husband, Paul, my other uncle.

My Uncle Bill, like his furnishings, was an elegant man. Elegant in my definition means he loved to decorate his home with beautiful items and dress up in well-made suits, colorful ties and jaunty hats. He would always have a theme to his house décor and the two themes I most remember are the home where he had nothing but antiques and his Asian home in San Francisco. This Asian-themed home had a buzzer at the top of the stairs, which automatically opened the front door. Climbing the stairs, I was led into a wonderland of Japanese dolls and Chinese pottery, silk curtains and plush couches, hanging decorative fans and colorful Geisha robes. It was a child's dream of beauty come true. In this antique-filled home, my uncle had a small organ which if coaxed he would sit down and play requested songs by heart.

Whereas my uncle smiled and laughed often, my Aunt Davina was serious and “responsible.” She and Uncle Paul were the ones who bought my grandparents' apartment complex after my grandmother died. They moved into what had once been my grandparents' residence to be near my grandfather, and independent Grandpy moved to the small back studio apartment. After Grandpy suffered a stroke, Aunt Davina cared for him until her near nervous breakdown forced her to put him in a nursing home. It was also my aunt who made it through her husband's losing fight with cancer. After Uncle Paul's death, I discovered an aunt who more openly shared her past. Her and Uncle Paul's wild side was brought out in her stories about their motorcycle exploits. In their younger years, they rode their motorcycle all over the Western Coast. Somehow I could never picture my Aunt Davina on the back of a motorcycle. Later she confessed, as did my mother, that they both got pregnant before being married. Scandalous? As a child raised with 50s virgin values, I was shocked! Yet these not so virgin confessions made these sisters more human.

Both my aunt and uncle never worried about money, as my mother did. We were extremely poor after my father lost his California Water and Power job and I remember my grandparents bringing weekly bags of groceries to our house. Later my father became a self-employed gardener, which happened to be my grandfather's trade. My grandparents never totally approved of my mother's marriage but the working man occupation brought my grandfather and father closer together. My father, a stubborn, somewhat shy man, avoided our visits to Uncle Bill or to Aunt Davina. He no doubt knew Uncle Bill was Gay, and he disliked Uncle Paul.

After Grandpy's death, and after Uncle Paul's passage, Aunt Davina sold the apartment dwellings and she and Uncle Bill bought a house together in Glendale near where my aunt and Uncle Paul had originally resided. Visits to my aunt and uncle continued to be magical, for Uncle Bill had nearly free rein in the interior decorating department. For Christmas, the entire living room shone in tinsel and glitter and porcelain figurines. Trees big and small were everywhere. Later my uncle and aunt decided to leave Glendale behind and to retire up in the northern California redwoods. This home was earthier and simpler. Though grown up, the twin factor continued to fascinate me. Amazing, I thought, that as twins Aunt Davina and Uncle Bill ended up living together. As in childhood, they had their fights, disagreements, and getting on each others' nerves, and from the outside they appeared to have opposite temperaments. But I could sense symbiotic support and there was a deeper love between them than between these twins and my third-wheel mother.

My aunt died first of a heart attack. In her will she generously provided for my uncle and named her daughters to look after him. Uncle Bill was utterly lost during his few years living alone without my aunt, even though he had spent his entire adult life living alone.

Twins...two embryos in one womb...nine months of growing limps bumping/cuddling each other...a childhood, an adulthood of sharing the same birth date and the same physical features. It is said each human seeks his or her twin. Are we looking for the universe to reflect/acknowledge ourselves back to us? Are we wishing for someone who completely understands who we are? Who “gets” us? And if this person appears to be our opposite, is it not possible he or she might actually be the twin we seek?

© 2012

A Daughter's Room

My daughter's room is part of the attic above us.

This room is fully carpeted with two domed skylights and one removable window to the roof. When she was a teenager, unbeknownst to me, she would climb out this window and sit on the roof staring at the stars in the black night or contemplate the returning sun in the wee hours of the morning. My daughter's room used to be full of pictures from her favorite indie rock and roll women, and she had a poster-sized photo of her first Portland Girls Rock Camp Band covering one of the secret doors. These doors lead to the wooden framed, open, insulated space beneath our roof. And behind these doors my daughter has stashed her no longer needed mementos. On the wood paneled walls of her room are several ink drawings, no doubt done to pass some of her lonely, insomniac teenage hours.

My independent, college daughter's room is no longer simply my daughter's room.

We have rearranged and added a new lamp to this daughter's spare room, dresser drawers have been emptied, unworkable electronic gadgets recycled. When she comes home for a visit, I feel as though the house is complete. When she is gone, I sense the room's emptiness. I'm better now. I'm replacing my mother life with a new reborn life of my own. Doesn't every mother wade her way through the waters of change after releasing her child to womanhood? Doesn't every mother find ways to fill the nest once the baby birds have left? I admit I'm over sensitive about, over attached to my love for this amazing being.

My daughter's room creaks above and reverberates with sound.

Occasionally I will sit in the middle of this attic room and smell her presence, scan her memories, wonder what this daughter's growing-up years were really like, for mothers are usually the last to know the truth. At thirteen my daughter did share one of her larger truths with me and this was her “coming out” as a Lesbian. And for this larger truth I have loved her even more. Through these swiftly passing years I have come to see her courage...the courage it took to be her authentic teenage self in a world praising sameness and the courage it takes to be a Queer woman in a world praising more conservative categories.

In recent months hope for marriage equality has gushed forth like a fountain raining down on a just universe. President Obama, as the first sitting President to do so, completed his evolution and personally came out in support of Gay marriage. This followed the beautiful, heartfelt statements of Vice President Biden. This dear Catholic man pronounced “I have no problem with men marrying men and women marrying women.” He was swayed by love, by connection with a two father family and his observation of their children's love for their parents. Then a federal appeals court declared the Defense of Marriage Act unconstitutional. Finally, most relevant for my J.C. Penney employed daughter, JCP, who first faced criticism for having Ellen DeGeneres as their spokesperson, never backed down in their LGBTQ support. In fact, their response to a shopping boycott by a group calling themselves on Facebook, “The Million Moms” was to have a two mom family ad in their Mother's Day catalog. And when this ad was railed against, they came out with a two father family ad for Father's Day. “Can you love a company?” asked my husband who sent me the Father's Day ad. So there has been hope.

There have also been tears: this mother's tears are testaments to the challenges my beautiful daughter faces almost daily. “That's so Gay” and “Faggot,” plus other equally hurtful phrases wafted through the hallways of her supposedly liberal high school. A preacher in North Carolina stated recently that all Gays need to be rounded up and put behind a wire barrier. As a school district home teacher, I have often had Jehovah's Witness families who believe the Bible states same sex relationships are a sin. But the Bible also supports slavery and killing one's neighbor for working on the Sabbath. My tongue gets bitten often, for I must professionally stand back in these situations and remain silent. But what I wish conservative mothers could hear from me is that just as you love your daughter, I love mine. And just as you want no harm and only happiness to come to your daughter, so too do I.

My daughter's room will always be her room.

We assume we live in a heterosexual world. We assume the majority of Whites filling professional occupations means Whites are more capable than Blacks or Hispanics, Asians or Arabs. We assume there is a “right” way of thinking. I put myself in my daughter's shoes: I look at television, the movies, the newspapers, the magazines, the social media and I rarely find my daughter. There is an increase of Gay men on the cultural stage, but what about Gay women? When my daughter sends a picture of her and her girl friend to her grandmother, her grandmother states: “Thanks for the picture of you and your roommate.”

I have to remember that it is a slow process, this movement towards change and acceptance. Growing up in the 50's I did not see one Black person in the media or on my street. It takes time. But when rational scientists and leading scholars/psychologists verify my daughter simply is who I already know she is, then I wonder at the blatant bigotry of the human race.

This June three hundred Mormons (Mormons Building Bridges) march with LGBTQ in the Utah Pride Parade in Salt Lake City. A Catholic Nun, Sister Farley, is severely criticized by the Vatican for supporting Marriage Equality and stating that “love is love.” My tears flow freely, for I am a sensitive mother. I cry at the hurt and I cry at the joy. I remember standing with my sixteen year old daughter watching the New York Pride Parade and crying. For five hours 5th Avenue was filled with nothing but support and love for my daughter. And so I cried because at last I knew my courageous, authentic daughter didn't feel alone, and neither did I.

© 2012