Back In The Saddle

Rode my Buddy, my scooter for the first time in 9 months, for the first time since a car bumped me from the back while riding down our main street, for the first time since my body got catapulted over the front end and splattered across the road. The incident was traumatic for me, even though it could have been so much worse in terms of physical harm. While my leg has not been the same, aches every day since and my mobility stays limited and a challenge, it is the psychological trauma of not having seen it coming, not having had any options to avoid the collision, of feeling victimized and somehow afraid that nope, the world is not a safe place.

Any sane person, of course, knows that driving, especially a scooter, in our local traffic in particular, is risky, to say the least. It is my sense of having tried my best to ride defensively - and having failed that has had a dampening effect on me. On top of that having been blamed, by a cop that came to the scene late, noticed scratches on the car and never even checked on my scooter or my helmet or my story. I suspect his quick judgment of faulting me was based on ageism. Older, white haired, confused lady failed to take precautions when attempting to change lanes. He was wrong, it still irks me.

I ride a scooter because I am European, because it is fun and economical, leaves a low carbon footprint and makes sense in our climate of 300 sunny days a year. Economics play though a big part. My scooter costs a fraction to insure and license and supposedly gets as much as 90 miles to the gallon. Compare that to my antique VW van's 12 miles a gallon around town. 

So today, not even realizing it had been exactly 9 months since the accident, I got it together to find the envelope with the updated registration that had been sitting unopened for half a year, placed the updated sticker, stuck the needed documents in the compartment and got the engine to turn over without a complaint. Surprise, riding the scooter seemed easier than riding my bicycle. I managed to do my grocery shopping without an incident and got home in one piece eager to go back out again. I hope to regain my confidence and meet life with courage once more rather than shrink from it.

Foul Play!

My honeysuckle bush is haltingly attempting a second bloom after the earlier one, in Spring had gone awry due to another infestation of pests. Not often do I declare a living organism a pest but those ugly, mealy, whitish critters that destroy my pretty, red honeysuckle blossoms deserve such an ugly label. The invasions started a few years ago after maybe a quarter century of problem free existence for this honeysuckle bush. I gave ladybugs a try, but instead of feasting on those bugs, they wanted to mate and escape. I tried soaps of various kinds with limited success, alas, the pests came back this year again and mostly destroyed what should have been a glorious offering for all kinds of birds and bugs.

Now mid-summer a few new blooms emerged once more which gave me the pleasure of watching some hummingbirds hovering near, early this morning upon waking, while still in bed. But by mid-day, this gang of Sparrows had descended and flitted in, about and around. So I watched one of those tiny birds pick apart, methodically, gingerly, one petal after another petal from a singular, most beautiful blossom, not to feed on any of them, but to drop them, discard them, let go of them so as to mess up my outdoor living area. While doing so he and his buddies kept staring in one direction, east, checking on, I don't know what. Why pick apart pretty honeysuckle blossoms? I suspect that pretty, tiny bird, no matter how cute and innocent looking, was a hooligan intent on messing things up for the hummingbirds and for me. I cry foul!

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.


Reading & Writing



Pondering some more

Going Out



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