Woman Unbecoming

I went to a plant nursery recently with one of my girlfriends who knows nothing about gardening, and cares even less about homemaking. She sat in the car and blasted the radio while I went in to shop, aisle by aisle, looking for aquatic horsetail, drought-tolerant groundcover, and bamboo.

While I was looking around, a tall, fairly good-looking, athletic guy in tan jeans and faded t-shirt came over and asked, “Are you finding everything alright?”

“Yes,” I answered, adding enthusiastically, “I love your selection! Are you the manager?”

“No, I’m the owner.”

“Wow! You’re so lucky! I’ve always fantasized about having my own nursery!”

“No!” he protested good-naturedly. “This isn’t luck! I work damn hard,” he declared with pride.

“Oh, I know. But luck comes to those who work hard,” I said in a tone meant to honor his hard work.

“Luck comes to people in casinos. This is pure hard work,” he said with a tone oozing with pride and a palpable passion for plants.

“I’m so jealous of you! This is the kind of hard work I wouldn’t mind doing.”

We talked as we walked, and as we did so, he stroked the leaves of his plants fondly and called out their names – Australian Tree Fern, Canna, Coleus, Hosta, Pennisetum…

Finally, he asked, “Can I help you find something in particular?”

I told him I was looking for horsetail for my little pond area, bamboo for my Zen garden, and some sedum with variegated leaves. He pointed me over to the area where they were and said, “Well, I’ll leave you alone. I’m sure you don’t want to be bothered.”

“Oh, you can bother me. I like people who know their stuff.”

He followed close behind me, poking the back of my upper arm with his finger. When I turned around with a quizzical look, he said, “I’m bothering you. That’s what children do when they want to bother you. They poke you with a finger non-stop.”

When he mentioned the word “children”, I thought of my girlfriend in the car and I lit up with the thought, “Oh, my God! I should introduce them!” My girlfriend -- let’s call her Lakisha -- loves kids. I decided to play cupid.

“Come with me,” I said waving him forcefully to the front of the nursery. “I want you to meet my girlfriend. She’s in my car.”

Surprisingly, and without hesitation, he followed me to the curb and headed straight towards my girlfriend, who was singing along with Stevie Wonder on the cranked up radio. He started poking her shoulder with his finger through the open passenger window.

I was a few feet away and could see them laughing together. They looked good together, like a cute couple with sparks flying. They exchanged a few words and then he excused himself to attend to a new customer.

I walked over to my girlfriend and before I could say anything, she said, ‘Girl, who’s the brotha? I been lookin’ at him since you pulled up to the store. He’s damn fine!”

I told her he was the owner, and she said, “What’s his name?” When I shrugged she quickly ordered me to “Go back in there and find out my future husband’s name!”

The nursery manager was busy with another customer so I picked up my selection, paid up, and we left. As we were pulling out of the parking lot, Lakisha called out in a flirty fashion, “Heh-hey,” making it sound like a two-syllabic word. “B’bye! Peace!”

The nursery manager smiled and waved us off.

I was as excited for Lakisha as I was for myself. This could work out, I thought. Of course I had no idea if he was married or not, but Lakisha wasn’t worried. She found him hot, he knew where he spent his time seven days a week, and she thought he was good “husband material.” She joked that she wouldn’t mind being a Valle-ho’.

“Well, Lakisha!” I chirped happily. “He might just turn you on to gardening! It’s tru-ly ve-ry soul-satisfying to put something in the ground and watch it grow!”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sure it is…” Lakisha agreed.

“It’s a very creative activity…”

“Did you find out his name?”

“We can go back tomorrow and pretend I need more plants. You can come in to the store with me, and you can tell him we’re looking for a specimen plant, like a cotinus coggygria…”

“Say what?” Lakisha exclaimed. “No, sistah, I’ll say to him, ‘Um, what do you call that thing you stick in the ground… ummm… the thing with roots… and it’s green…?”

I glanced at Lakisha to see if she was teasing me like she usually does.

She caught my eye and said, “Men like women who play dumb, you know. They like it when they know more than you.”

I jammed my foot on the brake and snarked, "Oh, really, Lakisha?”

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

-- Marianne Williamson

*Painting of "Women In Red" by Wolfredo Alicdan

Woman Being

Dear Jun,

Mayita came to visit me this past spring and stayed for a couple of months. While she was here we reminisced and relived old times. One night we listened to the songs Papa and Mommy used to play on the “hi-fi” and 8-track cassette. Such technological dinosaurs! One of the songs we both remembered as background music during our childhood was “Sabor A Mi.” We looked for it in youtube and played it over and over. I just pulled it up again and you entered my mind.

I find it amazing that you’re still such an important and vivid figure in my life’s continuing, unfolding story. Maybe it’s because our relationship is tinged with such bittersweet memories that I find it hard to delete you completely. Every now and then you pop up and I’m compelled to say hello.

Hello, Jun.

Sabor a mi.

Woman Thinking

"Cogito,
Ergo sum"
-- Rene Descartes

Western Philosophy bored me. I couldn’t get the point of all the speculating, cogitating, reflecting, wondering, debating and philosophizing about existing and being. I existed, and was sure I existed, so I didn’t think I didn’t exist. I daydreamed during class.

Growing up I used to look up at the clouds and imagine Jupiter with his characteristic beard lording it over us mortals here on earth. I imagined Jason with the Golden Fleece slung over his shoulder. Just last night, on the flight down to Newport Beach from Oakland, the marine fog was so thick I imagined it was peppermint cotton candy ready for picking, pulling apart, and melting on my tongue. When a mountain high enough poked through the clouds I imagined it was the hump of Nessie the Monster breaking through the frozen waters of Loch Ness.

It takes very little to spin me off into daydream land. When I read a profound and pithy quote my mind starts to scramble the words to make up my own. When I want creative inspiration all I have to do is open a page in a picture book or magazine and it would immediately spark my own creative juices flowing.

My favorite thing is to stare into space and let the ideas just start flowing. Then when I stare into space long enough, I realize it isn’t me doing the thinking anymore, some “thing” else is thinking for me.

Eckhart Tolle, in The Power of Now, states quite strongly that the greatest fallacy in western thought is Descartes’ assertion of “I think, therefore I am.” Tolle gives an example of a crazy person walking down the street talking to himself. That crazy person would be just like any one of us, with a mind constantly chattering, except that the crazy person is thinking out loud.

And yet, the crazy person’s thoughts do not make him who he is. With or without those crazy thoughts, his essence is still pure Spirit.

I got an email from a girlfriend recently who was in the midst of a psychotic break. Her email was a meaningless inedible word salad of a call to revolt and threats to kill politicians, sprinkled generously with crackling cuss words. Her psychosis does not make her who she is. I know who she is. She is pure in Spirit.

I’m thinking… and so am I.

I am.

I AM!

Woman Doing

In My Garden of Infinite Possibilities

Spread out remaining lava rock around existing plantings
Divide Mexican sage and plant around existing plantings
Divide society garlic and plant around existing plantings
Create garden vignettes around existing plantings ala freestanding container plantings
Order 1 cu. yd. planting mix/topsoil

Around Phlomis fruticosa:

Burgundy coral bells
lime green heather or ipomea or variegated sedum
campanula
society garlic

Around Lavatera:
?
Around Sarsaparilla:
Society garlic
?

In Garden of Gratitude

Plant iris on base of roses
Dig up umbrella plant and transplant behind bench
Transfer fan palm to large clay pot for loggia
Transfer fan palm to red glazed Asian pot for dining room

Create Garden of Well-Being

Plant Japanese blood grass around edge of water feature
Divide calla lilies and plant around water feature
Plant sago palm
Buy horsetail plant
Buy Irish moss groundcover

In Zen Garden

Cover ground with landscape fabric
Put up reed fencing
Cover ground with pea gravel
(Order 1 cu. yd. of pea gravel)
Plant bamboo along fence
Create burbling fountain in oriental pot


Miscellaneous…

Paint clay pots talavera style
Start mosaic projects (mosaic bird bath)
Give Arnold a bath
Pack for travel
Take before and after photos
Pick up prescription
Get dresser and chest of drawers from storage
Order tray of lumpia for Sunday brunch
Cycle 2 of Weight Loss for Idiots
Do expense report
Manicure
Pedicure
Meditate
Blog

"Mission Accomplished"

In a peaceful oak tree-studded hillside near downtown Lafayette, CA, lies an impromptu reminder of war.

By today's count: 4071

"Can anything be more ridiculous than that a man has a right to kill me because he lives on the other side of the river, and because his ruler has a quarrel with mine, although I have none with him?"

-- Blaise Pascal

"I've been to war. I've raised twins. If I had a choice, I'd rather go to war."

-- George Bush

"There's a graveyard in northern France where all the dead boys from D-Day are buried. The white crosses reach from one horizon to the other. I remember looking it over and thinking it was a forest of graves. But the rows were like this, dizzying, diagonal, perfectly straight, so after all it wasn't a forest but an orchard of graves. Nothing to do with nature, unless you count human nature."

-- Barbara Kingsolver

"Naturally the common people don't want war; neither in Russia, nor in England, nor in America, nor in Germany. That is understood. But after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine policy, and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is to tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country."

-- Hermann Goering

"Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the clouds of war, it is humanity hanging on a cross of iron."

-- Dwight Eisenhower

"All we are saying is give peace a chance."

-- The Beatles

"Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace;
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy."

-- St. Francis of Assisi

Flesh, Blood and Beyond

Rev. Ray Anderson, our guest Minister, gave a profoundly personal and engaging sermon this past Sunday. I can’t help but refer to these talks as sermons, a relic from my old ways. In a new day, a new earth, and a new consciousness, these talks are more like “shares”, a sharing of divinely-inspired aha moments, spiritual eurekas or enlightened realizations. There is always a refreshing absence of “Thou Shalt Nots” in these talks, an acknowledgment that whatever missteps we’ve taken, mistakes we’ve made, or sins (Self-Inflicted Nonsense) we’ve committed, it’s all a part of our life’s journey.

The title of his talk was “Remembering Who I Am.”

The philosophy that Rev. Anderson espouses is that our essence is divine. All of us – not just popes and priests, saints and sinners – but all of us, whether we realize it or not, are borne of divinity.

There is no bone of contention there. The bone that supports the framework of all spiritual traditions is that there is an Invisible Power back of all things, underneath all, in all, through all. It is this Invisible Power -- most often called God, sometimes Father-Mother-God, this “No Thing” (in Buddhism) -- that created us. As a creation of this Invisible Power, we are a part of it, animated by it.



As we become more and more conscious of this fundamental Truth, then we cease living as humans with only occasional glimmers of our own God-beingness, and begin to live more like fully-aware spiritual beings with only fleeting moments of human difficulties.

Not to be airy-fairy, of course. As our Muslim brothers like to say,

“Praise Allah

but tie the camels down.”

Rev. Anderson shared his story about the death of his daughter, an all-too human event, this past Valentine’s Day. According to the Reverend, his daughter’s quick and untimely transition from the physical realm to the “other side” was cause for grief and profound loss, but it also presents an opportunity for him to develop a different kind of relationship with his daughter on another, deeper level – the spiritual level.

I was in rapt attention listening to Rev. Anderson when my seatmate at church started weeping. Her mother had just died the month before and the talk broke her. I hugged her close as her tears ran down my shoulder and soaked my arm.

I don’t know why the talk didn’t break me. Instead it fortified me. This Sunday was the 29th death anniversary of my father who I love and miss with every breath of my life. I don’t know if time has healed the wound. But somewhere over the years I had learned to develop a relationship with my father beyond death.

When I need help and cry at night, I cry out for my father. I cry out for my mother, too. They made manifest to me all that I believe now to be God qualities – unconditional love, generosity, joy, compassion, creativity, courage, power, abundance, prosperity, forgiveness, faith and mercy. They gave me everything I ever needed and wanted during their lifetime, and I feel blessed and grateful. Even now, when they are no longer in this physical plane, they are present in me. In my heart they will always be, my Indwelling Father-Mother-God, beyond mere flesh and blood. My deeply felt connection with them is the springboard for my conviction of our spiritual essence.

“The personal life deeply lived

always expands into truths

beyond itself.”

-- Anais Nin

The Conscious Village

I recently helped my bestfriend and soul sistah Donna “Medi” Tate start her blog, The Conscious Village.


Medi is all about kids. Her life’s passion and fascination is child development. Every moment of her life is spent thinking about how to make children’s lives better – not in the grand gesture of an attention-grabbing, limelight-hugging politico, but more in the quiet, behind-the-scenes inner-city activist. She is a saint.

I’m not going to steal her thunder here but know that she has majestic and magnificent plans to improve the lives of kids. Her grand mission statement and the reveal of her vision is coming soon to a neighborhood near you.





I know I have regular readers, and accidental ones. I invite you all to bless The Conscious Village with your presence. Let us congratulate and encourage Donna “Medi” Tate for her ego-less dedication and wish her the very best in the pursuit and unfoldment of her sacred purpose, passion and plans.


As her favorite child advocate & role model Marian Wright Edelman likes to say,

"If we don't stand up for children,

then we don't stand for much."

Etude In Blue

I have a vivid, indelible memory of watching my mother painting this still life of her perfume bottles.





I can still see the canvas resting on the easel and Mommy working the palette knife thickly with cobalt blue and white oil paints.

Even as a mature woman it is impossible for me to give up the term of endearment "Mommy." When I first came to the States, it used to shock me to hear
some people address their mothers "Mother." It seemed so impersonal, detached, unloving, unpleasant and rude. I guess it all depends on the emotions and memories you attach with your mother. I no longer have those judgments. I now feel a sense of amusement about it.

I don't remember how old I was but young enough, I guess, for this snapshot in time to leave a lingering good feel. It feels like love, a feeling that blossoms into joy, and gives me a sense of comfort, home, belonging, security, wonder, awe, and peace. Such lasting influence! Cobalt blue bottles always get me.

Blue and white is the backdrop of my childhood. I remember window shopping one day, many years after leaving home, and seeing our family china displayed in the window of a home decor store. I burst out in tears. It was a feeling of pure nostalgia.





I remember restful Sunday afternoons with Mommy pouring thick Spanish chocolate into demitasse cups for us to enjoy some quiet time together. It was a graceful and charmed life being under my parents’ care. In the busy-ness of daily living and the challenges of growing up and getting older, I hold fast to my “anchor” memories, memories that keep me securely tethered to home, family and love.

Hold fast to your anchor memories,

memories that tether you
To the Truth of
Home, Family and

Love.

Discovering The I Am

“All manifestation of life is from

an invisible to a visible plane,

through a silent, effortless process of

spiritual realization.”
-- Ernest Holmes

In living from day-to-day, I face challenges and come across obstacles big and small. If God were living my day-to-day life, God would merely raise His sights, move aside the challenges, step over the obstacles and move forward, always growing, forever expanding, creating infinite possibilities for greater and greater good.

Nothing is an obstacle in God’s eyes. Aligned with Spirit, I merely lift my sights and look beyond the transgression, to the invisible good that is yet unseen by my physical eyes. With the same ease and grace that God created our manifest universe, so I shall co-create my own new universe.

This is my Second Coming:

Discovering The I Am.

Let Go, Let God

Can I just let go?

If I can let go the darkness will fade

If I can just let go there's a light all around me

But the pain in my thought has kept me holding on

But I feel like letting go

I'm ready to run and I'm ready to leap into what is real

I got a sweet invitation, a mandate of ecstasy

Let go of your will, drop your tools, and follow me

I am the life within you, it's time to be free

I feel like letting go

Let go, let God

Let go, Let God

Let go, I feel like letting go

Let go, let God, let go.

If I can let go heaven's at hand

Right now new life is awaiting

While I'm rearranging these old facts of mine

Said I'm tired of holding on

My heart is making an authentic appeal

It's such a sweet invitation, a mandate of ecstasy

Don't hold on any longer, drop your tools and follow me

I won't abandon my vision, it's time to release

The power of God is guiding me

To surrender to what I've got to be

And deep within God loves me so

Let go, I'm letting go

With God

all things are possible

With God

all things are bountiful

And deep within God loves us so

Let go, I'm letting go

If we can let go the darkness will fade

Pray to let go, let go, let go.

"I Feel Like Letting Go" from the CD In The Land Of I Am

Music and Lyrics by Rickie Byars & Michael Beckwith

Photo of Medi Tate

My Bestfriend & Soul Sistah

TGIF

"I've been thinking, Hobbes..."


"On a weekend?"


"Well, it wasn't on purpose..."


-- From Calvin & Hobbes, fictional characters from the comic series created by Bill Watterson.

Thank God, it's Friday!

Time to kick back and relax!

My Trip To The Dentist

On Sunday night I broke my front tooth on a rock hard baguette. I had root canal done on it almost a decade ago so it was very brittle. In fact, my tooth was held together by a titanium pin. My dentist, Dr. Ron Ashley, mended it so well that you wouldn’t know there was anything wrong with it. Well, titanium or not, it was no match for a baguette. What’s worse, the other half of my tooth fell down the drain.


Needless to say, when I ran to the bathroom and saw my broken smile in the mirror I became almost hysterical! I was frantic and panicked! I had moved out of the area and it had been years since I went to see Dr. Ashley. I didn’t even know if I still had his number. And the timing couldn’t have been worse. I’m about to begin a new job on Wednesday. Auggggggggggggh!


I googled “Ron Ashley DDS San Francisco CA”. It was still the same address and phone number. I dialed it but to my horror, the voice on the outgoing message was the voice and name of a young-sounding Chinese woman. I hung up. I checked the number again. I re-dialed. It was still the voice and outgoing message of Dr. Wong.


At the end of her outgoing message, she said, “If you’re trying to reach Dr. Ashley, he has retired. If you have a dental emergency, please call…” and she rattled off a number beginning with (650), a South San Francisco prefix. Auugggggggggggh! Dr. Ashley lives in Marin, area code (415).


It’s traumatic enough changing hairdressers, changing dentists is a life crisis! I dialed the emergency phone number and Dr. Wong answered. By this time it was past 10 PM.


Sobbing, I said, “Dr. Wong, please forgive me for calling you at this late hour. I was a patient of Dr. Ashley’s. I called his number but got you instead. I broke my tooth and I’m starting a new job. Please, please help me!”


“Don’t worry,” she said, calmly and cheerfully. “I can fix it. I treat Dr. Ashley’s former patients. He retired. Do you have the broken tooth?”


I told her that I did, but when I went to rinse it, it fell down the drain. I heard her suppress a chuckle. “Don’t worry, I can fix it. Can you come first thing tomorrow?”


“YES! THANK YOU! Are you still in the same building?”


“No, I moved to Commercial Street, in one of the small alleys above California and Montgomery. Dr. Ashley’s lease was too expensive.”


“YAY! I’ll be there. Thank you so much, Dr. Wong! Thank you, thank you!” Who wants to go around with a missing front tooth, right?


BART, the bay area’s rapid transit system, would be overcrowded in the morning, and I didn’t want to risk seeing or being seen by anyone I knew so I decided I would take the ferry from Vallejo to San Francisco. It's a leisurely one hour “cruise” with tour-like views of San Francisco and San Pablo bay.


Even though I set out at the crack of dawn, it promised to be a sparkling Monday morning. I pulled on a pair of old jeans, a turtleneck and a pea coat, grabbed my hair in a ponytail, donned a baseball cap low over my forehead, hid behind oversized knock-off Chanel sunglasses, and to ensure even greater unapproachability, wrapped my face in a pashmina shawl burka-style.


I took the 7 AM ferry and the regular morning commuters were either drinking coffee and reading the morning paper, or napping, sneaking in one additional hour of sleep before work. I decided to lower my burka and snapped a few shots.

The defunct Mare Island Shipyard across from the Vallejo Ferry Terminal and...

...the repair docks for the old nuclear subs of the Cold War Era.

Look at that gorgeous sky! Makes for a heartfelt toothless smile!

A soaring seagull as seaward sentinel...

Land ho!


When I walked into the dental office and saw that it was the same Dr. Wong who had laser-whitened my teeth 10 years ago, and saw Yana, the Russian woman who had been such an amazingly skillful dental assistant back then, I was absolutely ecstatic. We revisited old times and chatted happily during the long procedure. Whenever I could get a word in -- thanks to that suction thingy -- I’d chirp that I was the happiest dental patient in the world. I left Dr. Wong’s clinic skipping and jumping, minus the accoutrements of camouflage. Vanity, woman is thy name.


Freed from my burka and cosmetic cares, I whipped out my camera and played tourist.

The Transamerica Pyramid Building, a famous feature in the San Francisco skyline. Underneath the building, in a shady open space, tumblin' toads...

and leapin' lads mirror my giddy joy!

Look what I found! Could this be Elliot Spitzer's head?

The City is known for its flower stalls and unique shops...

A sustainable farm produce stand...

And my favorite food of all. Say what? Say cheese!

But as Dr. Wong cautions, "No more biting into baguettes!" What a great day it turned out to be. Who knew a trip to the dentist could be such a fun-tabulous event?!?!?

As my bestfriend and soul sistah Medi Tate likes to sing:

I am so blessed,
I am so blessed,
I am so thankful for all I have!
I am so blessed,
I am so blessed,
I am so thankful for all I have!

Let There Be Light

“If the sight of the blue skies fills you with joy,

if a blade of grass springing up in the fields has power to move you,

if the simple things in nature have a message you understand,

Rejoice, for your soul is alive.”

-- Eleanor Duse

Daylight Saving Time begins at 2 AM this Sunday, March 9, 2008, as clocks move ahead by one hour.

Daylight Saving Time is the harbinger of spring for me. Days lengthen, skies brighten, moods lighten... and as spring approaches, a fresh resolve is awakened inside of me to live more, do more, love more, enjoy more, dream more!

The Light Within

Engulfed in darkness
was I
Stranger to the
God dwelling in
Through trials and tears
I soon discovered
The Light
Was always within
Now I give
of this gift
To anyone
Who would hear
Pray,
Affirm,
Surrender,
Love always wins.

Gone Green!

Welcome to my hood, zip 94590, Vallejo, California.

The most amazing thing about my neighorhood is the panoramic view of the Bay Area. Lucky me! Vallejo Heights sits on top of the hill overlooking the old Mare Island Naval Station on the west, and on a very clear day, one can see across the glistening San Francisco and San Pablo Bay, all the way to the Golden Gate Bridge, the San Francisco landmark Sutro Tower, and Marin County’s Mt. Tamalpais.

Over on the other side of the hill towards the east, one can see Vallejo’s White Slough and on the northeast…ah, Napa -- Wine Country, pride of Northern California!

But the crowning glory of Vallejo Heights is a secret and delightful find – Sheveland Park, the city’s green glory, the perfect paragon of super-environmental friendly engineering and design.

Sheveland Park’s play structure was constructed using 19,434 plastic containers, 19,906 aluminum cans and 8,104 soup cans. This is the city’s recycling program at work. Impressive!

Wheeee! The slide down is a soft landing on trucked-in white sand.

The park is still a very well-kept secret. Very few children play here, and the high school kids seldom hang out. It is a great place to be still and breathe clean air, enjoy the view, write, meditate, or just be.

And when sunset comes... serenity...

Charming Gardeners

"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom."

-- Marcel Proust

Marcel Proust has been strumming my heart strings lately. Whenever I think of a quote that captures what I’m feeling or thinking, Proust captures it in one short and pithy sentence.


I was on the phone a little while ago with my dearest best friend and soul sistah Medi Tate who challenged me to do my gratitude list before I called it a night. It’s 1:41 AM now and I’m not ready to call it a night yet. My heart is welling up with emotions of thankfulness for the pure and simple grace that envelopes my everyday existence.


This simple grace is unquantifiable, unidentifiable, untouchable, and yet I have that distinct sensation of shimmering god-dust sprinkling down on me, filling me with positive expectation of new and blessed beginnings. Maybe it’s the coming of spring, the budding of new leaves on deciduous trees, the raucousness of birds, or the lengthening days. Whatever it is, it makes my heart swell. No… I know exactly what it is – it’s a feeling of overflowing thankfulness.


Today was a day of emerging and forging friendships, friendships real and virtual. Friends are the god proxies who show up in our lives and make visible to us the Truth of that Invisible Loving Presence. Call it what you will – God, Buddha, Christ, Allah, Lakshmi, Krishna, karma, energy, universe. Call it “Something.” That “Something” that creates magic and miracles is made manifest to me through friends. Kindnesses, humor, beauty, art, poetry, epiphanies are shown to me through friends. Yes, they are the charming gardeners of my blossoming soul.


So I end this day with joyous thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new.

Loser!

(Blogger's note: This is an edited post of the original article published on February 12, 2008, in recruitingblogs.com, a business and social networking site for professionals in the industry.)




In one of my recent contract recruiting gigs, I got a resume from “L”, an optical engineer who seemed perfect for the search I was conducting at the time.

The general requirements were at least 5 years experience in optics engineering, aerospace, defense, manufacturing, and a BS, or better yet, a Master’s or Ph.D.

“L’s” resume fit the profile to a tee, with longer than 5 years of experience working for recognizable names in the required industry. What excited me was that 10 years ago, he had worked as a novice engineer for the very same company for which I was recruiting.

How thrilling! As a seasoned recruiter I felt the familiar rush of adrenaline that comes when I know I’ve found that needle-in-the-haystack candidate. I had my own search firm once, a long time ago, and every time my business partner Nancy Hitchcock and I made a placement we danced around the office and pretended to bow to Mecca. We even kidded each other that making a placement was better than sex.

Anyway, when I come across the perfect candidate, I make a fist in the air and jerk down with a forceful and victorious, “YES!” So I did. Yes…YES!

I quickly dialed the extension of the engineering director and asked if L was eligible for re-hire. His immediate response was, “LOSER!”



Now, folks, c’mon. C'mon.

Have we become so heartless and lacking in humanity and compassion that we can so readily dismiss someone as a loser? Have you heard yourself call someone a loser lately? If you have, hmmmmm… You need to take a look deep inside your soul.

However pathetic "L" was ten years ago, ten years is a long time for someone to learn from mistakes, evolve, change, mature, develop, improve, transform and become a more productive corporate citizen.

I didn’t argue the matter. I knew it would be pointless to inject compassion in an environment that did not foster such a sentiment. After all, the corporate bottom line is about numbers – return on investment, sales projections, quarterly profits, cost per hire.

If the Engineering Director had a soul, perhaps the light of compassion in his heart would have spotlighted this perfect return on investment scenario. Here was a former novice who had gotten ten years worth of experience under his belt, paid for by another company. Now this seasoned engineer was willing to come back and add his earned-value on the table. Hubris has a shortsighted view.

Memo to self: No matter the prevailing ethic, I will be unwavering in my conviction that everyone deserves to be treated as a decent human being with infinite potential for excellence.

And Now We Turn To Politics...

There is nothing like politics to get the assassins out in force.

Everytime there’s a blog post about politics the poison arrows fly. It’s like the last scene in the Chinese action movie “Hero” where the Assassin Nameless (played by Jet Li) is executed by a million flying arrows. The visuals are stunningly beautiful and breathtaking but Nameless’ fate is certain and inescapable – death. Have you rented that movie yet? If not, please log on to Netflix and put it next up on your queue. After you watch it, you’ll totally get my point.

On Gather, and elsewhere in the political blogosphere for that matter, metaphorical death is the inevitable ending, not just for the poster but for everyone who gets into the fracas.



Hate flows.

Read the article “Chelsea Pimp Remark” by P.S. Burton and you’ll see what I mean. It’s amazing to see the bile and blood spewing in the riot.

One wrote in screaming caps, “…WONDER HOW CHELSEY FEELS ABOUT HAVING AN ACCUSED RAPIST FOR A "dad???. AGAIN EVERYTHING HILL AND BILL GET THROWN IN THEIR FACE THEY DESERVE- NOT CHELSEY SHE IS A VICTIM OF POOR PARENTS.”

Another rants, rushing to post without checking for spelling or grammar, “The ultimate sleazer's of all time, bj billy and the enabler- to all his mental illness, Hillary are out-raqed (sic), the same pathetic liars and mud-slingers "the Clintons".

Of course, there’s always the peacemakers who try to inject reason and diplomacy into the melee but who get shouted down by shriller voices nevertheless. Just like in real life, I guess. Depending on which side you’re on, you’ll hear the decibel of your own voice. You know who you are.

Trust me, I don’t mean to sound like the righteous one. In fact, I’ve ambushed some posters in the blogosphere myself. There was an article published recently with unspeakable words of venom leveled against both Democratic Senators and I, acting like a sniper, rated it a "1" without leaving a comment, and invited a connection to do the same. Guerilla warfare, y’know. It’s a jungle out there.

I’m bad. Okay, I confess. I emailed Dan Abrams a couple of days ago. On the subject line, I typed:

Obama girl has a crush and Chris Matthews has a hard-on

In the body of the email, I wrote:

“Hey Dan,

You are the GM over there, right? Do you have any control over Matthews at all? I’ve finally decided to pack my bags and go over to CNN and – good God – Fox Noise because seeing Matthews’ hard-on for Obama is obscene. You better do something about him because the youth might be watching.

Oh, and I grew up thinking the word journalist and news had the prefix “objective” next to it. Guess not!

My two cents,
Maya
Bay Area”

Thank goodness Deux ex machina, the Invisible Hand of God of Cyberspace intervened. The message was returned to me undeliverable due to a bad email address. Whew. In retrospect, I really didn’t want my foul mouth to be broadcast over the internets. But then again, here I am pimping my own porn.

If there’s a lesson in all this, the lesson is that in a democracy we hold these truths to be self-evident that all men and women are created equal, and that we are endowed by our Creator with the inalienable right to act like jerks.

That’s all I’m saying.

There But For The Grace

(Blogger's note: This is a work-in-progress piece for a weekly writing challenge in Gather. There are two parts to the challenge. First, the "hook" to the reader must be captured in 25 words or less. Second, the theme should be about interruption. I was humming along on my keyboard when writer's block hit me. I stopped here and will pick up again later. Here goes...)

“There’s a cop…A cop!” She muttered under her breath. “Keep driving. Turn right on the corner then go around again. I don’t want trouble…”

My heart started racing. I pressed harder on the gas pedal and the truck picked up speed. I looked at the rear view mirror and saw the cop car parked furtively behind a gray dumpster on the side of the building on my left. My heart skipped a beat. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and drove to the corner.

“Here. Turn right then go around the block. Maybe we’ll find them on the other side.”

Even though there was concern and urgency in her voice, Alexie was cool. She knew what she was doing. Alexie had done this dozens of times before but the times… they are a-changing.

I steered her monster steel gray Ford F-150 and rounded the corner. There they were, scattered along San Pablo Avenue, in front of Home Depot, leathery-skinned Latinos in groups of three or more, talking together or sitting on the sidewalk, day laborers all, waiting to be picked up like cheap whores in the night. But it was only 7 AM. Contractor’s hour.

“There, that one -- he looks big and strong. Slow down but don’t stop,” Alexie ordered. “If you stop, they’ll mob us. Keep the truck moving.”

I slowed the truck down to a crawl. Alexie pushed a button and the window slid down noiselessly.

“Cuanto?” Alexie asked in Spanish, directing her question to the hombre with the aggressive stance.

“Quince!” Day Laborer #1 said. He was big and strong and could command fifteen dollars an hour. Good for lifting heavy stuff all by himself.

“No, demasiado!” Too much! Alexie said to him, dismissing him with a flick of her wrist. She turned to me and waved her left wrist forward, motioning for me to keep driving.

The big and strong day laborer walked alongside the truck. “Cuanto quiere pagar?” He asked. How much do you want to pay?

“Ocho.”

“No, es barato!” Senor Big bargained. No, that’s too cheap!

“Diez.” Alexie offered.

“No, doce,” countered the big hombre.

“Quiere trabajar o no?” Alexie asked with a tone clearly communicating the upper hand. Do you want to work or not?

“Okay, ten. Okay,” Senor Big agreed, conceding defeat in price and in language.

No way Senor Big was gonna win the bidding. Are you kidding me? These guys need the money to send home. Alexie held up two fingers in the air and asked, “Amigo?”

Senor Big turned to his amigos and said something fast in Spanish but the only thing I picked up was, “Vamos!” Let’s go.

The two men climbed into the back passenger seats and strapped themselves in. I felt like I should say something to them, give them my HR spiel when I onboard a new employee. I half-turned around and said, “Hola. Me llamo es Maya.”

Alexie rolled her eyes and blew air out of her mouth, flapping her lips, making a farting sound. We all laughed.

“You don’t have to introduce yourself. Just drive!” She could’ve added, “silly” as in, ‘Just drive, silly,” but caught herself.

“I was just trying to be polite and make conversation.” I said, smacking her sisterly on her armrest. I started heading towards the freeway. It was a twenty minute drive to our work site that day. After driving a couple of miles along I-80 East, I felt compelled to make small talk.

“Esta usted de Mexico?” I asked.

Aside from my natural curiousity about people, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable sitting in a truck in total silence with strangers sitting in the back of me. What if we had picked up a couple of escaped serial killers from Tijuana?

“Si. Mehico.” Said Senor Big.

“No. Guatemala.” Said the smaller, stockier man in stained white painter’s overalls and a white baseball cap.

I glanced quickly up at the rearview mirror at the two of them sitting at the back. Their eyes were staring straight at the back of my head. Mexican, Guatemalan, I couldn’t really tell the difference. They all look the same to me.

“Cheena?” The small one asked.

I shifted my eyes quickly at Alexie who laughed at the question. She half-turned to Senor Small and asked, “Does she look Chinese to you?”

“Si. Cheena?”

“No, yo soy Filipina.” I corrected him. “Nosotros somos Filipinas.” We’re Filipinas.

“Cheena. Filipina. Los mismos.” Chinese, Filipinos. You’re all the same.

We fell silent again.

With a simple dismissive declaration, the lowly, uneducated illegal alien cut it down to the core. Mexicans, Guatemalans, Chinese, Filipinos. We’re all the same.

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door."

In the silence I searched my heart and mind to understand the hearts and minds of others. The situation was full of irony, although I’m sure only God could grasp the extent of it. Something was being made clear to me, but there was a fog over the vision, and it came in puzzle pieces. If only I knew where my life was going. The concrete road ahead with its bright yellow line seemed clearer. It meant there are lines you don’t cross.

I had crossed them and fallen from grace.




(To be continued...)

Goodbye Haiku

I cannot haiku

Enough to fascinate you

So I'll say goodbye.

Newfy Haiku

My gentle giant

slobbers, dribbles, drips and drools

sweet, loving kisses.

Write Like No One’s Reading

I woke up this morning to the jubilant strains of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake on KDFC. Instead of smacking the snooze button I snuggled more deeply into my feather bed and buried my smile deeper into my pillow. In my semi-conscious state I saw visions of little girls in pink tutus tippy-toeing and jete-ing across the stage.

I love ballet! When I was seven my mother took me to see the legendary Dame Margot Fonteyn and Rudolf Nuryev perform Swan Lake at the Tokyo Festival Hall. Mom said stars gleamed in my eyes during the lavish performance.

Mom indulged my every caprice.

“Capricho!” she would chuckle everytime I expressed a desire for something.

Hence the ballet lessons. Except for wearing my white school uniform, I lived in pink tights, black leotards and ballet shoes everyday. I even got good enough so that I was chosen to play a little swan for my ballet class recital at age 9. During one rehearsal I was so eager and enthusiastic about playing a little swan that I pirouetted myself right off the stage and broke my arm and ankle. Calamity Jane was a childhood nickname. Sad Sack was another.

I’m reminded of an email that got passed around sometime ago that said something like, “Love like you’ve never been hurt, and dance like no one’s watching…”

Adios, writer’s block! Goodbye insecurity! To hell with critics! From here on in, I shall write like no one’s reading.

I shall write freely and let my words fly like bats at sunset ascending into the night.

I shall write joyously like whales breaching the surface of the sea.

I shall type away until my fingers break through the membrane and morph into butterfly wings.

I shall pour out my heart, like there’s no end to the bloodletting.

I shall cry away the shame with words to purify me.

I shall turn those phrases like a pirouette with no end on a world stage without edges.

And then I shall end with a grand arabesque and curtsy to wild applause!

Yes, yes! I shall write like no one’s reading… Yes!

That Which Animates

Two weeks ago my cat Pooping Genius died. I didn’t even know he was sick. When I left for New York he was doing just great, a little skinny because he was getting on in years. Is ten years old getting on in years? And near death? That never entered my mind.

Then a week after I got home from New York Pooping Genius started showing signs of disorientation. Like, he would cry out when I got up and away from him. Or, he would curl up in places where he never did before. Then one day he just stopped eating and crept into an empty drawer. I thought he was just chilling out. The following day, he was still acting lazy, but nothing that showed signs of failing health. He slept most of the day (like most cats do) and then… and then he died at midnight. I found him after a very long and involved phone call with a girlfriend. Poopin’ was lifeless on my bed.

I was stunned, shocked, devastated. I loved Pooping Genius. As a rescue kitty of four weeks, I bottle-fed him and his six littermates. He was the fluffiest, most impish little thing ever. He had imploring eyes and followed me everywhere. When I went near him he would immediately flop over on his back and stretch his exposed throat for me to tickle and give me his paw to shake. Pooping Genius was very loving and gentle but when it came time to take him to adoption days at Pet Express, he would act out, hiss, snarl and claw at the person who was looking to adopt him. I took him several times and ended up taking him home each time. I guess Pooping Genius wanted to live with me.

Anyway, Poopin’ died at midnight. I called the friend who cat-sat for me when I was away and she said to put him in a glad bag, and to think of the glad bag as a shroud. Thanks a lot, friend. Then she said to make a funeral pyre in my yard. What the hell? I guess midnight was the wrong time to call her because I wasn’t loving anything she said to me.

I ended up swaddling Poopin’ in a towel and holding him next to my heart all night. I knew I would have to bring him to the vet for cremation in the morning, but in the meantime, I was going to hold him all night for the last time.

I shut his eyes tight and nudged his mouth closed. I couldn’t take my eyes off him all night praying desperately and weepingly that I could will him back to life. Where did his life-force go? When he was alive Poopin’s energy was vibrant, his body quick and nimble, his eyes sparkly, his meow loud and demanding. I know his heart stopped beating and there were other things that stopped working inside, but where is that which animates… where did it go?

It’s been two weeks now and I just got a call from the vet letting me know that Poopin’s ashes are back. I can’t believe he’s gone. Now I’m holding on tight to Mau, my 14-year-old yellow tabby, and watching vigilantly the rise and fall of his chest, listening for the whisper of his breath, the breath of life...that which animates.

No Chef, She!

I burned the chicken again today. The other day I charred the brussels sprouts. Good thing I don’t have any one else counting on me to get fed. I marinated the chicken thighs last night in soy sauce, orange juice, sesame oil, sesame seeds, green onions, lots of garlic, and black pepper. Mmmm… yum! Try it sometime. It’s really delicious eaten with rice and Thai-style cucumber, carrot and sweet onion salad.

Then, just before lunch, I put the chicken in the broiler and started tooling around on the internet. It was an extremely busy day today with tons of emails, lots of moderating, writing, reading and research to do.

Before I knew it, the fire alarm was beeping, Arnold was barking in my face, and the cats have scampered on top of the bookcases, knocking down books and bric-a-brac. I couldn’t salvage the chicken. It was hard as rock with a measly sliver of meat clinging to the bone. Lunch turned out to be a bowl of cold cereal.

I’m not too good around the house. I’m great at the aesthetics of living, like what curtain treatment would fit which room, what style lamp goes with what, or what plant will do well in certain light conditions. I’ve got a queer eye that way. But I’m a disaster in the kitchen. In the twenty-two years I lived with my mom I never saw her cooking or baking, or doing anything domestic. When I was very young, my mom was an editor for a Philippine women’s magazine, and luckily, she took me along with her to work, wherever that happened to be. Mom was taking her daughter to work even before it became the fashionable thing to do!

I also remember tagging along with my mom to lunches with her friends – artists, writers, reporters, fashion designers, politicians, university professors, business men and women, ambassadors, foreign dignitaries, and all kinds of VIP’s. Of course I didn’t know it then. I mean, I guess I knew they were important but to me, they were just mom’s friends. Mom always wore a string of Mikimoto pearls, her birthstone. Papa gave her lots of pearls. After she died, I got one of her necklaces, and the one and only time I wore it, I broke it. I’ll re-string it one of these days.

Papa doted on my mom, and mom indulged her interests. I never saw her lift a finger unless it was to wield a sumi-e brush in a Japanese painting class, or a pruning shear to cut chrysanthemum stems for an ikebana arrangement. Of course mom’s tool of choice was her mini Corona typewriter.

I never actually saw her typing or slaving away over her Corona. The Corona always had a single-ply onion skin paper fed into the roller, though, ready to receive her thoughts. Mom had her typewriter on a small desk next to her side of the bed but whenever I entered her room I always found her in the reclining position, eating bonbons and leafing through American magazines – Ladies Home Journal, Good Housekeeping, Redbook, and yes, even Cosmopolitan. (I remember seeing the issue with Burt Reynolds as the centerfold, butt naked. I thought it was gross and creepy, like looking at a human with a gorilla body.)

Mom was always in a good mood and would greet me with the broadest, loving-est, naughtiest smile every time I entered her “inner sanctum” and found her in that relaxed state. She’d announce without an ounce of guilt, “Isn’t it fun to be a writer? That’s why you should be one!”

In spite of the appearance of leisurely living, Mom was a prolific, accomplished and highly acclaimed writer. She wrote the literature textbooks we used in high school (English class was really easy for me). She churned out anthologies, translations of Filipino classics from Spanish to English, edited books, wrote columns, did book reviews. In college, most of my advanced literature professors were her contemporaries, and more often than not, my journalism professors started their careers at my father’s newspaper, the Manila Post, the first English-language newspaper in the Philippines.

I spent most of my career running like a rat in the corporate wheel, slaving away to reach goals not of my own making. I always had enough money to order in, eat out, everyday, every night, year in, year out.

Now I feel the undeniable, unmistakable genetic pull to write, so I must relax, recline on the chaise, and be still for the inspiration to come. I have to live on limited means now to follow my bliss, and eat burned brussels sprouts or cold cereal to sustain me. I’m filled with awe, wonderment and overwhelming gratitude for my mom – all that she was, all that she did, all that she taught me.

If only she could cook!

:-)