Small Pleasures


I treated myself to a small pot of mini-roses, the kind that over several years filled up a big ceramic pot that over-wintered outside our entry. Those roses would come back into bloom year after year in surprising and delightful patches of colors, but our pot got stolen exactly one month ago. So here is to new beginnings.

Usually, I treat myself to another orchid this time of year, but I got this one early in June and it has been doing great and I sure hope it too will come back year after year like most of my orchids did.

No, I am not enraged, the painted rock is what I found placed on a natural rock among others in the middle of the Santa Fe river last year. It's the closest I got toward anything associated with a natural body of water on our special day today. I like this rock and I like the idea of setting our especially most challenging feelings at Buddha's feet for contemplating. Eventually, the time will come to pass on this gem for someone else to do with as they please.


 A simply delicious spinach/feta quiche with a tossed salad was for lunch.


Pure & Simple





Odd to me, to be compared to a Daisy,
as my mentor Dwuno did, about 44 years ago
when she seen a seeming simplicity and purity in my nature
that reminded her of this most common flower, a Daisy.

Odd, since I had just started to discover via the expressive arts
my fascination and 'fatal attraction' with the power of the unconscious,
with the brilliance and complexity that lies within and beneath us all. 
The correlation never made quite sense to me, but it clung to my mind
and was what compelled me to take these images yesterday.

Unapologetic


Reading & Writing


Pondering


Eating


Pondering some more


Going Out


Dancing


Romancing


Unapologetically Taking Up Space 

She Persisted

On a tour of our local shelter, a lawyer I know personally, met a homeless woman with 2 teenage boys. When she learned about the woman's story she got so incensed she took on her case pro bono, dragged that woman's x-husband through the court system, kicking and screaming. He fought every step of the way, assisted by a despicable, high-powered lawyer. Yet, the lawyer, a woman, of course, persisted, for about 4 years, and won the formerly homeless woman a $200,000 settlement!

So remember this when telling another nasty lawyer joke. One homeless woman's life got changed significantly for the better due to the help of one pissed-off and determined lawyer.

Wall Of Love










"There’s been a lot of talk about building walls to divide us. Instead, we’re building a Wall of Love to bring us together. It’s a statement of how positivity, compassion, and connection overcome fear and hate."

This project brings out the creativity and enthusiasm of our diverse community: hundreds of people of all ages have joyfully joined together to create a dazzling Wall 50 feet long and 4 feet high that will be located on the fence outside the Railyard Performance Center (facing the Farmer’s Market).

Our big, beautiful Wall of Love is made up of 12″x12″ individually hand painted squares expressing what each person love, created at Wise Fool, Warehouse 21, Little Earth School, the Children’s Museum and Meow Wolf."




American Dream Not My Dream

My escape from Switzerland led me first to the Netherlands, to Amsterdam of course, the center of hippiedom, manna for my soul. I got invited to live on houseboats, so cool. Later I shared a flat on Prinsengracht with an assortment of international folks. We would evacuate the space for a nearby coffee shop most mornings so that Roland could practice his yoga in peace and quiet. Later we would head out on black, step-through bikes across town to the Boelhood, our macrobiotic restaurant and health food store, where we would create wholesome, adventurous meals for a small clientele for most evenings. Those meals always had 5 components to them, a whole grain (often brown rice) beans (Azuki were a favorite) a small fried something from leftovers, roots or vegetables of sorts (sometimes pickled) and a slice of freshly baked brown rice sourdough bread. A pot of grain coffee spiked with Juniper berries on the side. We made it all ourselves, never used any sugar or salt, but sweetened with soaked dried fruits, lots of raisins and apricots, out of good size buckets.

Rui from Funchal, Portugal, a tiny, wiry man with long black hair and deep dark eyes and a great sense of humor, intent then on avoiding a draft, made pear tarts with arrowroot glazes and distributed those all over town. A Dutch man, a short, solid and sturdy curmudgeon with a cuddly gray beard, pink cheeks and sparkly eyes, built us an oven out in the tiny yard and baked most of our breads. Ah, sourdough rice bread fresh out of the oven, with miso, tahini and a slice of local farm cheese, to die for. Those were good times, so good that at the end of the day we did not want to part, but would want to hang out a bit longer, except for Friday nights when we all would go free-form dancing at Het Cosmos, Amsterdam's new age center.

At the Cosmos is where I met Roland during "push hands" in Tai-chi class. Joe Onvlee, our teacher, a former sailor, with greasy black hair and what looked like a beer-belly, made it a point to come over to us to demand that we talk. This particular exercise he claimed demanded that we speak to each other. Joe had not just a little bit of Gurdjieff-style mischief in him. Neither one of us felt like being verbal, but as good students we complied and spoke introducing ourselves. I learned that my partner had his own healthfood store and restaurant and I was welcome to stop by. That is how I got to work for 5 guilders a day, food, and a place to stay. I still remember my first day at a long wooden, blond hand-crafted bench and table, when Roland took my hand, guided me over to the store section to choose some veggies and instructed me how to cut them up properly, meaning with the smooth movement of the Japanese knife leading away from me. Having been guided by hand, literally, startled me and endeared him to me.

At the Cosmos is also where I learned Swedish massage from an American bi-racial, gay, male couple from New York, great teachers. I still remember my fear of touching a stranger and possibly causing hurt and pain. I had reasons for my reluctance, my expressive art teacher had claimed that my innocent enthusiasm had caused injury to his collar bone. I needed a lot of encouragement to touch another and trust that my power was therapeutic, rather than mistakenly hurtful.

By profession, I have been a mainly self-made, process-oriented (aquatic) bodyworker/massage-therapist. After more than three decades, struggling mostly in private practice mostly in a small town in an economically depressed state I found myself severely burned out. I am a drop-out, a new age hippie that followed my bliss that incidentally never led to the pot of gold (as New Age philosophy would have wanted us to believe.) I am a first generation immigrant, bewildered by the society I find myself in. I have outgrown my anti-establishment stance, but have not figured out what to replace it with, or how to fit in with the world around me.

I supposedly achieved the American Dream when I got to own my own home, a tiny, less than 600 square feet open space studio on the other side of the tracks, then in the so-called barrio, now in a favorite high-priced 'hood. Yet a home of my own was never really my dream or one of my aspirations. It just seemed to be something that made financial sense. It ended up being the best financial decision I ever made and yes, I made some dumb ones. Meanwhile, I have not achieved my dreams. I lived blissful bits and pieces for moments in time, yes, I did. And those moments were glorious, yes they were, but none lasted. These days I no longer hold any dreams for myself, none. They say never give up, persist, it's never too late. Nope, not for me. There was a time and then it passed. Time moves on, things do change, sometimes inexplicably. My dreams are gone.
Part 2

Part 1

 to be continued

Blooming Century Plants Spectacle












Century Plants shoot up to 30 feet at the end of their life cycle. 
They bloom once only in their 10 - 30 year lifespan.
These Century Plants were planted about 10 years ago in the Santa Fe Railyard Park.
The buzz of busy bees in and around those blooms, way up there, is audible below.

Reaching For The Moon


Not Feeling Patriotic 

Yesterday


Chance meeting & greeting of Baci,
Jane's new puppi, soon to be a certified assistance dog
at Counter Culture in Santa Fe.


Sumo looking at me holding high hopes for treats
having waited patiently and politely outside Whole Foods
while I was shopping inside.
As so often, Sumo is focused on me, 
while Isabella is focused on the environment.


Miss my Buddy, my scooter,
so I finally, stopped by the repair place 
and came to an agreement to patch up the cosmetic damage
to bring the price down to about half.
So, my chances are good for getting over my fear
and riding my Buddy once again starting next month.
I celebrated this long overdue decision with 
a stop at Counter Culture, a favorite local restaurant, 
where I had the good fortune to meet Baci for my very first time. 

Soviet Spy

It's been a tough year - decade, in some respects, while of course it always could have been a whole lot worse. I have been meaning to express some of what follows for a while, wondering how not to come across as whiny or complaining. I might sound like it anyway, so here it comes anyhow.

August of last year I walked out of a job my once best friend and client, with whom I had a falling out twice, had offered me repeatedly. My friend had become a lawyer after a decision at the ripe age of 48 that followed having gotten pissed off at not receiving a bonus she believed she richly deserved from her boss, a lawyer she had worked for. My friend needed to complete required college courses first then had to apply to law school twice and graduated as a senior to opened her own law office soon afterward. Eventually, I was no longer in a position to refuse her offer to help her out. I managed to play secretary for her for a full three years.

Those years reminded me strongly of my teens when I worked for an important lawyer in Zürich, Switzerland. Our office was involved in the creation of a third pillar to the Swiss national retirement program. I was in training then, a common work/study practice in Switzerland. After a false start of working in the fashion industry (beauty had been up and foremost in my early teen mind) and after I had taken a sabbatical (as an au-pair in the French-speaking part of Switzerland) I had emerged as a more serious teenager, eager for more meaningful work, such as I imagined happened in law offices. 

Never would I have imagined that after only three semesters I would have become a Soviet spy suspect! My conventional Swiss boss, the highfalutin lawyer, could not fathom why else I would wear my handmade, bright red, cotton cap to and from, but never at work. (I was in the process of becoming a Swiss-style hippie, it was the early seventies. World-travelers, hippies would stop over in Zürich, their mystique was infectious!) The reason for having become the object of suspicion was that the new secretary had figured out that I no longer lived with my parents and tattled on me. True, at age 18, I had the audacity to embrace an opportunity to move in with my dear friend, not lover, Joe, an exquisite artist and dear soul under the roof of a patrician house. My hometown gave me a stipend, unasked for as I recall, but on the urging of a social worker, with which I managed to live on my own, prematurely, according to the working class conventions of those times.

I had worked hard, and I thought good, at playing secretary at that office. I had kept records on petty cash, put out mass mailings, wrote letters by dictaphone according to standard procedures clearly outlined. I typed pages over and over until they were perfect and took notes in shorthand. I was a good secretary-in-training (Lehrling) especially during the absence of our real secretary due to illness. But when her replacement took over, my troubles started. My budding career as one of so many 'Büro Gummies" or pencil-pushers in Switzerland came to an abrupt halt, I was fired. No doubt this experience contributed significantly to my flight from my country of origin, Switzerland, and to my eventual immigration to the United States of America.

So here I was back at a law office four decades later, but this time with barely any formal education in the English language, much less familiarity with the customs,  not to speak of those at a law office. I worked for a woman that once had been my best friend and my client but I had more than one falling out with, who had become my boss. I worked for a woman whose approach to life was in many ways opposite to my own (astrologically thinking Leo versus Cancer, fire versus water.) Amazing that we lasted 3 years, the experiment should have come to its natural conclusion after 3 months, not 3 years. One day, I walked away, never ever to miss the work at that office, ever. What I do miss since is income!

Part 1 of more to come

Lost & Found

Found eleven pennies last week -  the good omen made my day
found a twenty dollar bill today - I am worried!

For real, I found a twenty dollar bill on my walk with dogs with no one near. Only one lovely appearance in a white flowing gown, long tresses down her back, little white dog on lead walking down alongside the train tracks. Maybe the bill fell out of her pocket when she was fishing for a poop bag as I so often do? Raised to be an honest and a good girl, I followed that lovely woman and learned that no, she lost no bills, that she is from Burundi, from where the best drumming with the best of drummers come from, and that her dog's name has the same name as my dog, Isabella. This most lovely lady with her copper-toned skin and copper-toned tresses suggested I simply accept the find as a gift from the universe.

What may be viewed as a gift by one, may be experienced as a misfortune by another. I feel no guilt picking up pennies, which I find fairly frequently and which tend to make my day when I bring them home and place them in my Tibetan singing bowl. Same goes for dollar bills, but with 5 bucks I start to worry that someone may really miss that bill. I found a twenty dollar bill a while back in the park, my dogs led me straight up to it. I assumed a drunken guy may have slept off his buzz in those bushes. Long gone, his scent may still have lingered when we approached. No one was in sight then too and I was worried that those 20 bucks may have meant a whole lot more to my imaginary guy that lost them than to an average person. 

I don't think of myself as being average. I once got really upset with a friend who picked up a $5 bill at the entrance of Trader Joe's grocery store to quickly and gleefully pocket it without even glancing around as to who may have lost the bill. There were a lot of people coming and going out of that popular grocery store. A twenty dollar bill in pocket or lost may make a huge difference for a street person. It may determine, I imagine, an ability to buy the kibble for their dog. Which reminds me that yesterday we received the unexpected gift of a bag of primo, organic dog kibble from a neighbor who only has one cat to feed. She had bought the wrong kind of kibble, a mistake I have made too. I was, and I still am grateful, even though I have been avoiding brown rice in kibble for the last 5 years. Since my furry friends have been on a grain-free diet.

Back to the idea that one man's gift may be another man's misfortune, or not. It does not hurt to try and double check one's assumptions and extend our compassion to others in times of plenty as well as during hard times. 

Us



We took a break from the horrific news that assaulted us daily with seemingly not a moment to catch our breath. I looked matronly in my disguise of a green, patched together, cotton dress that made me act and look like a farmer's wife, except hard labor was never really my thing. A cool breeze had me still wear my winter shawl. Isabella looked ridiculously happy and fluffy having gotten her shower only recently. Sumo found the most comfortable spot to settle on, my lap. My neighbor had offered to take some pics of us, the first ones in years, so with Sumo's recent health crisis, I was glad to accept.

Sumo seems fine, while according to the vet his 3 months are up and he is supposed to be a goner by now. Instead, he again runs after the bunnies, but with a bit less enthusiasm, with a bit less stamina than he used to have. I guess that is o.k. considering both of them will be 12 years old this year. He still has a hard belly, I assume a fibrous mass inside, probably cancerous and he is still on his CBD oil, albeit less of it.


Since we just celebrated Father's Day, a pic of us about 60 years ago!



Rogue Hollyhock


Sadly this rogue hollyhock blooming out of the middle of a pretty blue pot of mini roses, collected over several years, got stolen in the early morning hours today. I woke because Pretty Kitty asked to come indoors. Wide awake, I sat at my computer when I noticed the sound of a truck with bright head lights on right outside our driveway. My dogs barked, which is rare for them during nights. Next, the truck drove off, I can still hear that sound in my ears. Later this morning, as I still wondered and got outside to check, our lovely pot of roses was gone, the hose dribbling water toward the concrete driveway. 

I reported this to the police, for the records, not because I harbor any hopes of recovery of that pot, but because my neighbor reported his loss of everything stolen out of the side pocket of his Harley Davidson motorcycle to me the week before. The cop told him that burglaries were on the rise in our neighborhood. We both were aware that there has been a lot of comings and goings of late with all kinds of constructions and people moving in and out. Correlations of burglaries with concurrent construction sites have been noted by both of us before. 

Oddly the very friendly, female cop asked me for my for proof of ID, my social security number and if I worked, was employed or retired, something outside the norm of sanctuary cities. Something that might prevent undocumented citizens from reporting crimes. Something I don't remember having been asked before. So, I reported this to our Mayor's office who confirmed that this was not usual and that they would look into it and get back to me. 

Meanwhile, I feel vulnerable and wonder why anyone would steal a pretty, but funky, blue terracotta pot of an assortment of colorful mini roses with one rogue hollyhock in the middle in full bloom?

Take Refuge


in beauty


in fluffy, furry friends


in good company


in good food


in reflection


and the knowledge that this too shall pass.