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.

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

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. 

Late Low Light Last Night

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?

Mami

Mother's Day and I can not help but remember my Mom, my Mami. I had turned three when this photo was taken by my Dad. I got to wear white knee socks in new black shiny shoes and this very pretty white, winged, lacey dress. I still remember my excitement in getting dressed for our outing, while still in the bedroom of our old apartment up on the hill among the well-to-do rich folks. An area of town we would abandon 3 years later in favor of a working class neighborhood with more suitable friends for me, my parents thought, I disagreed. 

I loved physical proximity with my Mom, sitting on her lap, holding hands or snuggling up in bed on Sunday mornings. Mami knew how to make reeds sing, I never learned. Mami liked to laugh, whistle and sing especially while riding her bike. I learned to like that as well. For a while, I rode on back of her bike until my foot got caught between the spokes right near our central train station in Zürich. I still remember the spot and how scared I had gotten, probably screamed more in fright than actual pain. I remember Mami's brown sunglasses and brown, wooden pearl necklace, the one I eventually inherited. I also remember a pin of a little black elephant she liked to wear with her gray striped suit. Eventually, that pin graced my black felt hat, until I lost it at our dog park. I also inherited a black elephant sculpture she must have brought back from Kenya, one of those various vacations to Africa my working-class parents treated themselves to. Mami loved to travel, loved geography and loved to explore and made sure they had plenty of opportunities to do just that.

I was born with black hair just like my Dad's but only a year after this photo was taken the hairdresser found my first white hair on the top of my head. I remember it clearly, the young hairdresser's loud exclamation, expressing her surprise to the whole hair salon. I was not sure if I should be embarrassed or pleased. Like my Mom and before her Dad, I too was to turn gray early on, but unlike my Mom, I swore to myself to never ever dye my hair, not a fake blond or an odd blue, ever. Mami was frequently mistaken for my grandmother by strangers, but my Mami was not old in spirit. Mami was energetic, expressive when she wanted to be, and she was the only Mom that ever played hide & seek with the whole gang of us kids and afterward treated us all to some chocolate. 

Decades later I learned that what I had believed to be my good friend from across the street, who frequently came over to our home, came not so much because of me, but because of my Mom. Because Mami was so different, not kindly looked upon by her very conservative, fundamental Christian parents. My Mom smoked in public. Over the phone, Mami's voice would frequently be mistaken as that of a man. My Mom could be loud. Mami could laugh so hard I could hear her across the department store where she worked in the wine department. Those women working under younger men would drop wine bottles on purpose, on occasion only, so they could finish up the content and have some fun. Unlike her Dad, my Mom did not overdue it with alcohol, I have never seen her drunk ever, not even close. 

My Mom insisted on her bread and butter - and meat, steak preferably, but neither one of my parents were alcoholics. I am grateful. I always believed myself to be vulnerable to addiction and therefore stayed clear of most addictive substances. While still in ninth grade, I rebelled by stealing and smoking my Dad's hidden cigarettes, those he really never touched and had gotten for free in cute little packages. The desire to smoke left me as suddenly, at the age of nineteen, as it appeared, at the age of 15. Same goes for the desire for meat that had left me the moment I had left my parent's home to live on my own. To this day I will trade in a bar of chocolate for a piece of meat anytime unless it is Hershey's kind of an abomination of what goes for chocolate in the US.

Today I am grateful for the good memories I do have with my Mom. We were estranged from since I was a teen to a year prior to her passing. It was painful. It seemed impossible. I moved to another continent with an ocean to separate us. Mothering is not easy and does not come naturally to those that have not gotten it right from the start. Wounds heal, the best we can do is try to keep our hearts soft and care to the best of our abilities. To all Mothers that try to do their best and love the best they know how.

Love, A Thing Of Beauty

Mother’s Day "perpetuates the dangerous idea that all parents are somehow superior to non-parents." - Anne Lamotte

I am nobody's Mom is a favorite saying of mine and is my attempt to escape the stereotype that a woman of my age and my shape with my kind of silvery/gray hair inevitably will find herself in. While I have done plenty of nurturing, cared for my clients for more than three decades, and while I am currently doing my best, but never enough, to nurture my furry companions, I truly am nobody's Mom. That is how I like it and how I prefer it.

My Mom passed away suddenly while she had been pan-frying steaks. Earlier that day she had gone out shopping by bike, while the steaks were sizzling my Mom keeled over. For a fiercely independent woman, her heart attack was a merciful quick means of transitioning. She would have hated a stint at the hospital and worse an extended stay at a nursing home.

We were estranged for several decades until I got a chance to help my parents move from an apartment they had occupied for more than 40 years. This move into a new place at their advanced age was huge for them and so was my willingness to help them. It changed us. For that last year in my Mom's life, living on different continents, we enjoyed frequent phone calls that nurtured us both.

Unlike Anne Lamotte, I hold no animus against Mother's Day, it is only one of many holidays I don't celebrate. I don't feel slighted either by the focus on mothers, same as I don't feel slighted by someone focused on eating steak, something I have not cared to eat since I left my parent's home even though some considered my Mom's steaks the very best. Holidays have become so commercialized, why should I care, much less begrudge a woman a bit of special attention?

Endearing to read Anne Lamotte's annual piece on Mother's Day in which she states that flowers and chocolates "can fill me only if it is ordinary and available to all." Such a moving sentiment that reminds me how as a 10-year-old girl I felt similar in regard to the kingdom of heaven. I imagined it impossible to enjoy heaven in the knowledge that others might not be allowed in, worse, might be roasting in the supposedly cleansing fires of purgatory. Needless to say, I don't celebrate Christian holidays any longer either. I will admit, I even resent holiday greetings or token presents that lack authenticity and are not embedded in a real and caring relationship. This goes without say for birthdays too. Those yearly cards from those that one never hears from otherwise or those facebook well-wishes from those that never bother to visit much less interact with one's facebook posts, I can do without.

I am rather convinced I did the world a favor in not having set loose one more human on an already overpopulated globe. So this tidbit by Anne Lamotte rather surprised me. "Ninety-eight percent of American parents secretly feel that if you have not had and raised a child, your capacity for love is somehow diminished. Ninety-eight percent of American parents secretly believe that non-parents cannot possibly know what it is to love unconditionally, to be selfless, to put yourself at risk for the gravest loss." Really? In my professional life, I have seen way too much dysfunction from inadequate parenting that perpetuates trauma from one generation on to the next.

This said, wherever we find love, be that between mother and child, between parents that honor and respect one another, among best of friends that confide in each other, in the sacred bond between client and therapist, or in those special moments when strangers meet and reveal themselves with authenticity and an open heart, and not least in our caring for those that depend on us such as our animal companions, it is always a thing of beauty.

Postcard Protest

March 15. an avalanche of postcards that express our protests were mailed out.

I had to resort to some ancient cards I must have acquired back in the eighties that quote Rumi and Thich Nhat Hanh. It did not trouble me to cross out the word intimacy to overwrite activism. The Deplorable currently occupying (barely) the White House needs to know that there is no blocking the flow of our speech and our actions of #resistance. There can be no legitimacy until tax documents have been revealed, conflict of interests have been eliminated and Russian interference of the whole of our election process has undergone an independent investigation. The Con claims we don't care, but he is wrong and we are making a show of it.

My other card I mailed to the Deplorable posing as Speaker of the House. The guy that can not wait to throw seniors under the bus, rip away their health care and social benefits in favor of profit for the insurance industry. He claims competition will bring prices down, but what it will only do is make those corporate CEOs richer. We want #SinglePayer health care, not a sell-out. We want patient-centered care, not profit for corporate CEOs. Those two are not compatible. This idea that those vulnerable to needing health care would have to pay outrageous prices for insurance is just on-real. When will the US become a civilized society and attain affordable insurance for all? Meanwhile, we keep up our protest, we resist.

Every day is a good day to mail a postcard that offers a piece of our mind to a Deplorable.

The Audacity

Sumo had the audacity to regurgitate undigested kibble IN, not on MY bed! On my freshly laundered white cotton sheets, at exactly 2 am this morning, without giving me the slightest of warning.

Loverboy Valentino, aka Pretty Kitty always announces in the weirdest of high pitched, complaining sounds the imminent inevitability of those waves of convulsions that will lead to his regurgitating the contents of his stomach. Such often self-induced by eating my decorative grasses, no doubt a form of self-help. Those dramatic announcements of his have given me the chance to quickly pick him up and carry him to the bathroom to do his thing where cleaning up is a cinch, to the point where this pretty smart kitty would head to the bathroom out of his own accord.

Kitty had a problem with throwing up for a number of years. Only much later was I able to connect the dots to vagrants hanging out in a basement of a vacant property next door. The new owner discovered an unwelcome surprise of a huge amount of disgusting litter that filled his basement. It attracted all the neigborhood cats, no doubt, including mine. I have to confess that even though my bedroom window looks right down on that area, I had never noticed any activity in that home during all those years it was on the market for sale. Yep, this was historically the home of the train master. When it was put on the market it sold the first day for more than the asking price of $350,000, but the new owners run into foundation problems and doubled the price when they put it back up for sale so it sat there empty for I believe 7 years.

Back to Sumo, how is it that this dog can do his business, meaning throwing up or peeing right next to me without my noticing? I must say in our now almost decade of living together he has done so only 4 times. I also like to say that there was a time my pets were not allowed on my bed, much less in my bed. But Sumo in particular it seems to me has maybe a genetic disposition for wanting to curl up under the covers next to his person. While kitty would like nothing better than to curl up with Sumo, nope, I am the focus of this rascal. Same with Isabella, she used to press herself into a small corner of her bed to invite him over and share, but Sumo refused adamantly in the first few years. He would choose the sofa if I would have let him to spend the night alone if not invited to my side. And behold, this tiny guy takes up space preferably right across the middle of my bed. 

So while Isabella used to have the good sense of getting up and wanting to go out to do her business until she got older and of late seems no longer motivated to make such exertions. Thankfully her stomach seems to have settled in a good and healthy routine, now that she no longer is given a chance to ingest raw bones that lacerate her innards and have me in a panic when I would discover her bloody stool. 

I was pissed this morning at 2 am when I had to get up and rinse the sheets out and place them in the washer, to then dig for new sheets to make my bed again from scratch. Anger denotes commonly a lack of understanding and truly I don’t get why a dog would soil his (our) bed? Sumo is fine, he is not sick, but was happy to eat his meal, sardines with pumpkin puree to sooth his intestines, around noon. Yep, having pets can be messy. I get upset more often than I should. My stresses and anxieties do not foster the calm and kindness at all times that I would wish for in my relationships with my furry companions. Always I feel a level of guilt that I could or should be doing better. What I do know though is that I do attempt to relate to each one for real, and not make them into an extension of myself, into babies or kids I never had, or toys to be paraded about. We relate and we do have an understanding of sorts.

Wähe

Wähe is what we ate in Switzerland on Fridays when Catholics would not be allowed to eat meat. Wähe would be offered in bakeries by the slice in varieties made most often with apples, apricots, plums or berries, but were also made from onions or cheese alone. Friday lunches consisted for us usually of a choice of two pieces of Wähe per person served with coffee. Wähe and Birchermuesli are by far my favorite Swiss-style delicatessen, Fondü does not even come close.

In an attempt to clean up my diet and get a hold of a recent flare-up of inflammation, I have resisted the temptations of sweets and bread but resorted to baking myself almost daily now apple tarts, a nice ritual first thing in the morning. Yeah, it may be better to abstain from flour in regards to the calming of inflammation, but I can do only so much at any given time. I abstained from coffee and buying sweets for the last 3 weeks, mostly. Meanwhile, I drink a whole lot more, probably still not enough, but hey, one step at a time.

So, I prepare a crust from organic spelt flour with a bit of wheatgerm and flaxseeds mixed in mainly for texture. (I am afraid the benefits of those ingredients are no longer great after having been baked.) With a mix of purified water, sesame oil and Braggs I make a simple dough, cover the pan and place it in the oven that got pre-heated to 425 degrees. Next, I break one, maybe two eggs, add a dash of cayenne, maybe a dash of sugar, depending on the quality of the topping, the juice of one small lemon (clementines or oranges make for welcome variations) and then add one or two grated apples. Then I may add one or two cut-up dates or a few currants and if available cranberries. (I keep some in the freezer all year, grab a handful here and there as needed. They are great in soups too.) This mixture gets to fill the pan and to bake for another maybe 20 minutes. Plenty time to prepare a cup of coffee, or of late my ginger-brew, and check on my social media sites.

My pups get to enjoy pieces of the crust after I savored my treat. I figure a bit of flour and oil with no sugar or salt is better for them at any time than the usual commercial dog treats. They seem to agree, considering their enthusiasm. 

Wishing all a peaceful and nourishing day this Sunday morning.

Rob's Handle

My next door neighbor Rob got a handle on most everything.

I mean the guy is a genius in figuring things out, any kind of thing.

Things like how to prevent my curtain rod from crashing down on me.

Things like fixing leaks and keeping his renters happy.

And yes he got handles of all kinds in the oddest of places.

Not Guilty!

October 24th, on a bright and mild Monday morning, on my way to the Community College down a major traffic artery on my scooter, a 29-year old woman chose to ignore my signals of wanting to make a move and change lanes.

First I heard a woman's voice scream, then I felt a bump from behind that made me lose my balance. Next, I found myself splattered out flat on the street, propelled over my scooter, stunned, terrified and in shock. The first impact had been my helmet hitting the pavement sending a jolt back in to my spine.

I was then and I am still fully aware of how vulnerable I am, not just riding a scooter, same would go for attempting to cross streets while walking with dogs and drivers simply not giving us the right-of-way. I am vulnerable because of my age, my lack of flexibility and the accumulation of stress in my body, besides the lack of financial and social resources, including proper insurance. While I do have insurance, the damage to my scooter and my own physical self were not covered. They would have been if the driver had fled the scene! 

I had turned my head to check the lanes in the back of me. The two lanes behind me had been clear. No cars in close range only three cars way back that had just crossed the traffic lights, far on the other end of the block I had been on. Splattered out on the pavement, I looked to check on those cars to notice that quick acting strangers already had blocked off traffic thankfully. Two strangers I believe helped me to get up and hobble over to the curb. My left knee hurt and greatly concerned me, but I was able to move. My scooter was on its side bleeding fuel. I was hit from the back, my basket clearly shows this. I did not sideswipe the car as later the cop would claim. The driver of the car bumped ME from behind. I did not sideswipe her car with the basket mounted on the back of my scooter as the cop later claimed.

First responders in a fire truck happened to notice the accident in passing and stopped. Able to walk, sore, but not in excruciating pain, I refused medical help or a ride to the hospital only asked for something to whip up the blood from my left pinky. Someone called the police, a cop appeared on the scene maybe 20 minutes later. He talked to the driver of the car then gave ME a ticket. My supposed violation "DRIVING ON STREETS LANED FOR TRAFFIC" what the fuck! What does that mean? The cop would not elaborate, invited me to contest the ticket in court. Well, that is what I did a month later. I pleaded NOT GUILTY!

How did this happen? I have been riding in traffic on two wheels for half a century, starting at the tender age of 10 riding my bike on streets to school and through heavy traffic in mid-town of the largest city in Switzerland, Zürich. I was maybe 12 when I fell in my attempt to follow my Mom on her bike through an intersection where my bike got caught in a track for our trams. I fell then, was stunned then, and I still remember it clearly half a century later. My left leg was in a cast and I walked on crutches for about 6 weeks. 

I loved biking in Amsterdam especially, but also New York and San Francisco. Now getting around on my bike in Santa Fe is a whole different matter. Santa Fe's culture of drivers paying little to no attention to signals and signages makes for a major challenge in negotiating traffic. I was fully aware of this when I first started riding a scooter in Santa Fe 10 years ago. But here in the American Southwest, we have the perfect climate for riding on two wheels, sunny, dry and temperate most often. Riding a scooter is fun and a whole lot cheaper than my ancient gas-guzzling VW van. $2 fills my tank and may last me for a week. While my first scooter, a Honda Elite 250 cc, was heavy and a challenge for me to handle, my current Genuine Buddy 125 cc is a breeze, so easy to maneuver it is pure joy. My point is I am not an incompetent, dare-devil senior who takes up a hobby thinking that makes them feel like they might be young again, makes them take stupid chances that may get them into trouble. I read that seniors have a high injury rate for that reason. I may have white hair, but I did not have a 'senior moment' either, I did not space out or become inattentive.

For the first 6 weeks, I laid in bed mainly, left leg elevated and iced, getting up as little as possible, going through a whole tube of Arnica gel in one week only. Walks with dogs were minimal. The hyper energy of both of my pups on lead, tugging here and there, made walks very stressful. A wrong move might create serious damage, tear tissues that may require expensive medical attention. I felt very vulnerable as if I were hobbling on eggs. I would start to feel better, only to feel worse again due to aching inflammation in my leg especially during nights. Concrete floors I learned were now hard on me. The pain in my knee has been my main concern. I still can not fully bend it which makes sitting down or putting on a sock, but especially boots challenging. Reminder, cut toe nails often enough! I also hurt my left hand. It still is swollen some, aches and I still have a lack of strength that shows in my being challenged holding a pot when doing the dishes. I have no idea yet what this may mean to my ability to practice my profession of 3 decades in the future. As a massage therapist I depend on the strength in my arms and hands. A huge ugly bruise on my left upper arm did not bother me a bit, neither was I left with any pain from my chest crashing into the ground. I assume because I had been going slow approaching red lights. The impact on my head when hitting the pavement seemed to have had no lasting effect on my spine. It was the first day in the season I had worn a woolen ski mask under my helmet which must have been a blessing. With the new year, I have been pleased to notice another level of ease yet in my walking. I still hobble, but I move forward a bit faster and smoother, while most of the aches during the nights have subsided.

The day before this accident I had been up on the mountain with my pups hiking with surprising ease after weeks of debilitating sciatic pain that made straightening my back upon rising a major challenge. That day all that pain somehow had dissolved and I had hiked through the woods with a renewed freedom and endurance. Time will only tell if I will be able to go again on such long, rejuvenating walks in the woods. Now, I am truly grateful that the impact of this accident did not compound on that earlier misalignment. I do know that I am truly lucky and things could have been a whole lot worse.

Only when I did go back to the scene of the crime, reluctantly, the day before my pre-trial hearing on January 3. did it dawn on me on how this accident may have happened. Until then I just could not comprehend how a car had suddenly gotten so close. How did I not see it coming?  I was approaching a major intersection (Cerrillos Street/ St. Michael's Drive) where my 2-lane street was about to turn into 4 lanes. I now seem to remember a car on a side street waiting to enter the traffic that actually prompted my concern of a busy right lane and my wanting to change one lane over. I turned my head, looked back assured myself of the two lanes behind me, looked forward as I just about passed that side street and gotten to the 4 lane section, slowing down for the traffic light ahead of me. I bet that car I had spotted on that side street was driven by that woman who sought to merge the far left lane quickly. She admitted to me that she had noticed my intent to make a move, but she failed to give me my right of way and to keep a safe distance but attempted to quickly pass by me. 

January 3rd, after 3 hours in court, the first one in, and the last one out, my ticket got dismissed. After 10 weeks of mulling things over, arguing my case in my head, I never even got sworn in and I was never given a chance to make my case in front of the judge. I did argue with the cop who claimed I sideswiped the car and failed to check the lane on my left, due to inattentiveness, hah! He cited evidence on her car, I asked how his assumptions jived with evidence on my scooter. Officer Trujillo had no answers. At first, he suggested a plea but then pressed on for dismissal of all charges. Yep, my ticket got dismissed without prejudice with no fine, and no record! 

But also no compensation for the stress of one cop's wrong assessment of supposed evidence and one woman's failure to yield. While I should have felt immediate relief, maybe even elation, I felt confused about my mix of emotions. I should have felt grateful, this accident could have been so much worse. Gratitude though has never been my forte. Being accused wrongly won over my emotional landscape. Such has happened to me too often. So since I could not argue my case in court, I made an attempt to do so here.

Meeting Rattler

Christmas eve, out walking my pups, with camera in hand hunting for pics at sunset, an ominous layer of thick white clouds on the horizon looked promising. At this inopportune moment, a Hispanic guy in a turquoise jacket approached us. Dogs make for great openers. He was polite enough to ask for my permission to pet my pups. They loved the attention, of course. The guy gushed how dogs know people. We talked a bit. I noticed an elaborate tattoo covering his throat. They call him Rattler, likening him to a rattlesnake he confided. Said he is 44 years old, getting up there. Girlfriend threw him out, so he was prowling the streets, on Christmas eve. I inquired about his family. He lost his Dad early and his Mom a bit later to Leukemia. I suggested he go back to his girlfriend and apologize. Never. He would never ever submit.

Incredulous sounding, he kept repeating that his look-alike brother was the one that just got killed right near the plaza. Said his brother got shot just like a dog. I had read the recent headlines. Rattler kept on ranting about street-justice. If cops will not do it, he will. I suggested a 12-step meeting. Yep, he knew about them, had to attend them by order. He then declared his love for Jesus but continued to lament the loss of his brother. In parting, I begged him to talk to his higher power. He had turned already to accost another female pedestrian.  I returned home with pictures only in my mind, none in my camera.

Shadow Self

Native American guy accosted me for a hand-out. 

When I refused his buddy gave me a hug against my will.

Reeking of alcohol he insisted that he loved me and will always love me. 

I am afraid this stranger believed I really needed a hug. 

The man was right.

Good Morning To The Birthday-Boy!

Good morning Sumo Birthday-Boy!

Sumo lives for the chance to chase some furry critters. It's in his genes.

I let him off lead illegally once in a while because I know he will respond to my recall. He needs to run off some steam, some of the times more than others, but today he deserves it simply for the fact that he was born. We all were born to follow our own inclinations, our own noses, and to listen to the demands of our own organisms. Pet live is not always the most accommodating to such self-determination. So for now, I gotta get ready to take him up the mountain where he can be off lead chasing probably chipmunks, rather than black bears, I hope!

Found!

Finally, I buried this sculpted mischievous head of clay in a crevice at a playground yesterday, the morning kids had a special invite for supervised sand play. Last year I had found two such heads in the gutter outside our clay & pottery studio. I imagined I had saved a lost work of art from an oncoming rain storm, hah, they had been placed there on purpose to be found by kids. Those heads had already gone through the fire and become impervious to moisture. Of course, I had recognized the artist right away. I had watched a slight man diligently at work outside the studio on fascinating whole figurines of clay, so I would pause, maybe chat, then move on to walk my dogs. I love how the pottery studio in its peaceful setting along our railyard tracks seems to always bustle with creative energy and since their renovation affords us now an interesting view on working artisans and their creations through huge glass windows. The artist, a proud father, explained that he and his daughter, a grown, very talented woman, created a head each, then placed them in the gutter on purpose to be found they had hoped by kids. The kind man insisted I keep those tiny busts.

Well, all along I had this idea of placing those heads for kids younger than myself to find, while I might lure nearby to capture their expressions. So, yesterday finally, I buried those heads in some sand between rocks in hopes they would bring some unexpected excitement. Now hanging around to watch was another matter, there are only so many hours in the day, sad to say. By the evening no more heads were to be discovered.

Till Eulenspiegel?