VP Presidential Debate Debacle

After watching the VP presidential debate, I have one BIG question... How did Palin get to where she is? I mean, the US is supposed to be the "leader of the world" and the Republican party pick her!!! So tell me again. How did she manage, out of all the possibilities, to get picked? I am aghast!!!

My brief observations from the debate:

Lazy vernacular -- darn, six pack
Childishness -- winking, making reference to her brother (or was it brother-in-law's) school
Lack of knowledge -- side stepping questions, getting facts wrong, hard to make sense of her
Lack of compassion -- robotic ignoring of Biden's emotions, flat lined delivery of 90% of her speech, rehearsed speech, little passion
Lack of control -- It's "O'Biden", slurring of words or is that slinging words?

I have a shiny ball theory. The Republican Party are very good at finding things, such as shiny balls, to distract people from what is really going on. I think that McCain thought that Palin was a great shiny ball. It worked in the beginning i am sad to say. I hope that the American people put on their sunglasses or avert their eyes in order to see what is going on. The shiny ball is only shiny on the surface. Scratch it and it is just ordinary, poke through the ball and it is hollow.

Palin's words were hollow, as was her heart.

Icelandic Impressions

As I fly into Iceland I am reminded of landscapes in sci-fi movies. The time is 6:30 in the morning. There is a fog and the landscape is black. At first I think that it is because the sun has not yet shone its spotlight on the green but it is truly black; the result of violent excessive eruptions of lava flows all younger than 700,000 years old. Little vegetation covers the lava rock. It looks bleak as the craggy lines of the lava formations are covered in lichen and moss. It is beautiful. You can view pictures @: http://www.new.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1152587225&ref=profile

I compare Perth, Western Australia to Iceland. Both countries are islands and both places have a feeling of something alien about them. Perth is like going to Mars. The landscape captures the imagination as scrub bush dots the flat red dirt. Iceland is like heading out into the blackness of the solar system where the jagged lunaresque landscape is barren of scrub. I love both types of landscapes. The alienation of this type of world appeals to me. The lushness of North Carolina is cloying. I prefer the starkness and rawness of landscapes like Australia and Iceland. The openess is refreshing. There is a loneliness that is both a strength and a weakness. The strength is in the wonder that anything can survive in such a harsh place and the weakness is that only a few do. In addition, there is a psychological effect that is apparent. People are icy. And I say this, pun intended. That is until you know them. And as the saying goes, "What goes on in Iceland, stays in Iceland." :o)

Leaving for Iceland

Raleigh Airport -- Unlike the start of my trip to Australia, the start of my trip to Iceland started off without a hitch. That is, until I was standing at the gate, waiting to board, people watching and day dreaming. Did they call my name? I knew they were boarding passengers but they usually board sections and my section hadn't been called. So I returned to my reverie. OK, that definitely was my name over the loud speaker. The gate keeper to access the plane looked at me in total non-amusement and said, "What are you waiting for?". I thought to myself, "A bigger plane." I sheepishly, moved quickly down the runway. I hate being the last one to board!!

It's my entire friend's fault. When she dropped me off at the airport, she said to me, "Have a wonderful time, no, have a bizarre time." And then proceeded to laugh at herself. I agreed with the notion, yet not an hour later I was cursing her. My brain was fuzzy, I nearly missed my flight out of Raleigh which was beginning to feel like Kansas and I like Dorothy. I have the red shoes, but the heel kick is not returning me to OZ.

I arrived at JFK, where I had a 6 hour layover. I caught the AirTrain to Terminal 7 thinking that I could get my boarding pass, go through security and hang out in the departure lounge. But that would have been way to easy on a girl with a bizarre curse hanging over her head. Icelandic Air does not have early check-in. Apparently I needed to go to Terminal 4 which is the main terminal that has bars, food, and off course duty free shopping. Harrumph.

This would not be so bad if it wasn't for dealing with the AirTrain. The AirTrain relies on powers of deduction which I don't have. Bewildered I stand once again at the train station. I wonder if the approaching train goes to Terminal 4. I overheared that it goes to such and such station. OK, not mine. But how did they know? I am panicked. What am I missing? Once again I looked over the information map. Nope, that still didn't help. I wished for my GPS. I have travelled the London Underground, I have used the Toronto subway, I have navigated the world and yet the AirTrain is beyond me. Another AirTrain squealed up and I prayed (and I am not religious) for a hint from the God of Trains. Scarily, the voice of the God boomed around me and said that it was going to Terminal 1. Well that helps. Not. This mere mortal needs more information. How about a map with twinkling lights showing the train's trail? Treat me like a child, please, please.

I look around in embarrassment, feeling as though I am the only one that is just not getting it. I notice other frustrated passengers. First they get on the train, ask other passengers if the train is going to the destination that they want, and then they get off the train; always with an embarrassed laugh as though they are at fault. Finally, I just decide to jump on the metallic beast and leave destiny to the God. I stand at the front of the beast, hand gripping the rail, as it lurches forward. Where I go, I don't know. I am an expert traveler, but at that moment I am a novice. Somehow, the God of Trains has heard my plea and the beast reaches my destination.

And much, much later, after a Cosmopolitan or two I am on my way to a destination that was never on my "kick the bucket" list -- Iceland.

Nightclubbing & Flirting

I haven't been out dancing in a nightclub in, ummmmm, 20 odd years. A group of friends decided to try the new nightclub in Raleigh, Solas. We decided to have dinner there. Now I love food and consider myself a bit of a food snob. So when I ordered "foie gras" I knew what I was doing. And phooey to those of you who think that it should be banned. Move on and order something else.

Apparently the kitchen didn't know what they were doing. Or, maybe they did. When my trendy large dish arrived I could barely see the trendy sized foie gras. Now I get nouveau cuisine. But this was over the top. Almost as overtop as Solas charging $13 for a glass of ordinary red wine. Now don't give me, these are New York prices. $13 for a glass of wine is not NY price. This is Raleigh trying to be NY by thinking that way. NY charges that price if the bottle is expensive; not cheap. I digress. I need to get back and rant about my foie gras.

Imagine 2 pieces of toast, a little smaller than the old shaped iPods. On one end of each cold piece of toast were two incy, wincy little pieces of foie gras. My friends took one look and started to laugh. If I was that foie gras I would have turned from brown to red. I tried to spread the foie gras but it kind of bounced a little, bringing more laughter to the table. Hmmmmm. In my experience, foie gras is supposed to spread like soft butter. In this experience, it jerked like overcooked tofu. I took a bite and too my surprise all that was left was the other half of a dry piece of toast. My friends now had tears rolling down their faces because my expression was, well, it must have been funny. In two bites, I had eaten all the unspreadable foie gras and what was left were the end pieces of toast. It was then that I noticed some white stuff underneath the toast. I took a tentative bite and could not believe it. It tasted like potatoes but I wasn’t sure. I took another bite. OK, I figured it was mashed potatoes, but it was lumpy!! UGG. I think it reasonable to say that I will be eating elsewhere in the future. The dancing made up for it though.

In addition to checking out Solas for the dancing, my therapist had given me some homework. Now don’t get all wigged out that I casually mention that I have a therapist. I have this philosophy that if you don’t share information about yourself then others will have this notion of you that is not true. So I am free with lots of information about myself. However, there are some subjects that I will never blog about – personal relationships for example. Not because of me, but out of respect of the other person. So my therapist’s homework for me was to flirt. Now don’t get me wrong I can flirt when I feel safe. It is when I stop feeling safe that I can’t flirt and I get defensive. This happens at work, it even happens when I go out. I get cold and panicked. I don’t know how to act so I put up lots of barriers and boundaries. I get all logical and non-flirty.

So I decided to flirt on this particular night. To see whether of not I could do it. Keep the warm, natural me going. I was doing it fine with my dance partner who was gay. We were flirting really well because I felt safe with him. So I looked around the room wondering who I could practice on. After a while a couple of guys caught my attention. I kept dancing and keeping an eye on them. Yip they looked like good candidates for my homework. I nervously walked up to them and asked them if there was a bet going on. They said yes. What it was about I have no clue. I forget things when I get nervous. I felt that I was doing well flirting with the two guys. I was patting myself on the back, until the guy who I not paying as much attention to, mentioned that his friend was married. Huh!!? Crap, I had forgotten to ask that question. Hell, I hadn’t even flirted that long to get to that question. I mean, at what point does one ask that question? This single stuff is complicated.

I turned to the supposedly married man and asked him if he was married. He said that he had an open marriage. I gulped hard. I felt the flirting motor shutdown fast. Homework was over. “What do you mean by ‘open’”? I asked casually, getting ready to bolt. He explained that he couldn’t come back to my place but I could go back to his. This was too much for me. Then he said that he was kidding. I said it was not funny, which I knew was not flirting. He said I did not know his sense humor. Well duh, I had just met him and this topic was a bit too much too soon. Then I remembered that I felt way better on the dance floor with my gay friend. He knew how to flirt without being stupid. So I said “Bye bye.”

And my flirting motor started up again as my body gyrated with my new friend.

A "Birfday" Wish

A few weeks ago I asked my very good friend Cindy what she would like for her birthday. She rendered me speechless when she requested that I write her a poem. I can't tell you what that meant to me. I could have written about how inspirational she is, how beautiful she is (both inside and out), how funny and smart she is, how she is so many things to so many people. But I think of her and I think of wine. We both love to indulge and both have the same belief that life is meant to be lived. That means we drink even if we have to workout the next day!!! Maybe our running group should be named "Cab on the Run" or something like that. And so I came up with this "Ode to Wine".

An Ode to Red Wine

Inky, red passion swirls before her eyes
Her complex companion numbs her from background laughter
In this world there are no lies
She is heady as the chocolate, leather notes linger in her nose
Her eyes droop as the silky liquid passes over her lips
Spicy edge lingers long on her tongue
It's a complete, less manipulated courtship
Not changed into something it was not meant to be
Flirting with perfection imparts a groan from her throat


Happy 40th, Cindy.

Ripley

Ripley is the purest of friends
there are no lies between us
Her love is total but she gets pissed off at me;
the little furrow of the brow,
forgiven I get the little grin

Liquid brown eyes talk to me so loudly;
Her nose twitches with pleasure
at a world I can't smell
Her ears perk up at special words
She knows how to spell "treat"

Her eyes so pure, so much purer than mine
She gazes around in delight
For life, for me, for everything
She is always near me; being, doing or dreaming
Sometimes asking

I have followed Her golden tail
swishing as She explores
rotted crabs, the swirling waves:
when she rushes to introduce Herself to birds and squirrels
and then looks confused when they don't stop to say "Hi"

Yes, I believe in a "being" heaven
I have been preparing for a long time
when She will no longer share my bed
when She will no longer roll over
to expose that white, soft belly for rubbing

I will never say goodbye
and that's all there is to it.

Friendship -- Not a Casual Investment

A friend is someone who takes your hand and leads you back to yourself. To me, being a true friend means that I bring a gamut of things to the relationship: giving, laughter, amazement, challenges, disappointment, sadness, hurt. As I am not perfect I expect friends to tell me when I do fuck up, and believe me they have. And I learn. We are all learning about ourselves and each other and sharing that learning. But on the whole I believe I bring friends laughter and joy.

Can true friends tell friends that they are pissed with each other? I bloody well hope so.

I believe that the closer the friendship, the more you can reveal. I could not get pissed off or celebrate with a person that is an acquaintance or a casual friend. Why expend the energy? But a close friend I can get pissed off at, cry with, share joy with, because the barriers are lowered. I can be vulnerable with a close friend because I know that when I get pissed off they won't judge me, or dump me, or abandon me. And if they do, it is short lived because they get to see the deeper me. They see the kaleidoscope of wonders (dark and light). I know that I can cry and they will be there. I can feel joy and a friend can share that with me. Yes friends have the potential to hurt more, because they get to see more. That is the trade-off.

Would I get pissed off at a casual friend? Would I be vulnerable with a casual friend? Absolutely not! They will just experience the fun, bubbly me at distant intervals. With a casual friend I would never get pissed off with or share many feelings with because the investment and expectations are not there. And yes, I do have expectations or rather guidelines for friends otherwise I would have no boundaries. Casual friends will never see the wonderful dimensions that I have to offer. And I will never the experience the wonders of them.

I spent a large part of my life living the philosophy that others are responsible for their feelings and what they think. That is so easy when I don't want to think about others. It takes energy and empathy to think about others. I am responsible in part for my actions on others. I cannot go around being angry or sad or happy at people and then saying "Well I am just being me, it is their responsibility how they take it." I managed to stay married way past the due date because I had been taught that I was responsible for my feelings and thoughts. No matter what the case, I always ended up rationalizing that I was the one who was responsible for my feelings. My ex-husband was therefore free from responsibility. He could act like he wanted but it was up to me to change how I felt because "Goddamn it I was responsible for how I felt". To a degree I agree about being self-responsible, but I also ended up hiding my feelings.

Now I realize that I have three choices if I don't like the way something is said or some behavior is incongruent with how I think.... 1. Decide that this behavior does not mesh with the way I think and it is critical to my well being and leave. 2. Decide that it is my thinking and deal with it on my own. 3. Have a mature conversation with the other person and see whether or not a compromise can be met. These steps are so much better than being passive-aggressive (which comes out as cold and distant and silent punishment).

A friendship to me is an investment. As with any investment you take the highs with the lows.

Tim is Right

A while ago I wrote a blog about whether or not male and females could be friends without men at some point thinking about the females in a sexual way. I disagreed vehemently. I have since changed my mind. And Tim, yes you are correct. With every word, people are subconsciously determining whether or not they want to be that person's friend and at some level whether or not they could "sleep" with the other person. Whether or not this is at a conscious level is another thing.

Being at a conscious level depends in part on the boundaries. If for example, the woman is married, the sexual thinking may not reach consciousness. If the woman becomes single, the man may or may not explore that boundary. If the man is married, he may or may not admit the sexual part. But it may be there in harmless, fun flirting.

Recently, I have become more aware of the breaking down of boundaries. I apparently was clueless or wanted to be clueless. When a person, married or not, asked me to do something, like go diving, I just figured it was to go diving. DOH!!! How naive of me. Sadly, I now have to take into consideration ulterior motives. I had more fun the other way. I could just be me. Now, I feel as though I have to be on guard all the time -- I feel as though I am in a Monty Python movie -- "On guard you are in terrible peril. But no, it's my duty to to sample as much peril as I can. Oh, let me just have a little peril."

I Can't Vote, But I Can Think

The Republicans have done it again!!! They have managed to set up a situation that is turning the attention of people away from the real issues to trivia. For the longest time the media were enamored with Obama. He could do no wrong. The media were even fascinated by his ears, for goodness sake. I recall a comparative reading on each of the candidate's ears. Even Obama's ears won the race back then.

What are the Republican's fighting back with? A woman who has a contentious background. Lots of angles to fill the 24hr hungry medias. Immediately, the media was all over how attractive she was, then it was about her teenage daughter having a baby, then it was her baby with Downs Syndrome, then it was ..... And Obama slips quietly into the "those with the lesser ears" group.

Is Biden getting this much attention? The Republican strategy appears to be working. It is as though Palin is running for Presidency. Let's watch the pretty, shiny ball over here, while we sneak in stuff over here.

McCain-Palin represent all things that women and I have fought and are still fighting so hard for. To date, she and her party are against sex education, birth control, the pro-choice platform, environmental protection, alternative energy development, freedom of speech (as mayor she wanted to ban books and attempted to fire the librarian who stood against her), gun control, the separation of church and state, and polar bears.

And when I heard that her and her church were praying for gays so that they would become "ungay" I lost respect for any intelligence I thought that she might have had. Does she read? Once again, religion renders people stupid in my humble opinion....

And then I had the misfortune of overhearing a conversation in the women's locker at work. Two ladies were talking about Palin and admiring her. One older lady said that she was going to vote for Palin because, "I am so impressed that Palin manages to run in the mornings with the schedule that she has. She deserves my vote." HUH!!! That's how people decide to vote? I was disheartened.

I am a resident of the U.S.A., which means that I am taxed but I can't vote. This sucks, because I want to cast my ONE vote. People who can vote need to make their vote count. Not on whether the candidate has the better ears or can manage a run before work. THINK dammit, THINK.

My Cherry is Popped!!!

It started out as a joke. As I was sitting at the bar in Vivaces with my girlfriend, I was telling her that I have never had drinks bought for me by men. By this I mean I have never walked into a bar on my own or with girlfriends and had a man buy me a drink. She looked at me as though I was an alien. She took that as a challenge and decided that I was going to have drinks bought for me that night. And before long, I had a drink before me. But not quite the way that I had envisioned.

My friend has been conversing with someone that she knew. Let's call him Will. My friend and Will are old acquaintances. With a twinkle in her eye she turned to Will and said, "Would you believe that she has never had a drink bought for her." What does a girl do with that? Laugh, be embarrassed? "I know, can you believe it?" I retorted, sarcastically. That's the best I could do on such short notice. Will bought me a drink. What a heart!! My friend then said gleefully, "Consider, your cherry now popped!!" Ummm, I supposed it was..... I thought it would be better!!

Later that night, still up for the challenge I did manage to have our drinks bought for us. Actually, it was not intentional as it happened by accident. Did it feel better? No. Maybe I will be buying my own drinks from now on!!! Or maybe I will be gracious and let men buy them for me. There is nothing wrong with being gracious.

As One

My feet in the clips, my hands on the bars, my body pushes up, my legs pump, and there I am, standing up on my bike. I am pedaling furiously up a hill. I tense up and then remind myself to relax my gnarled grip, my hiked shoulders, my tight arse, my heavy hamstrings and calves. Once I do that I urge the bike forward with me. We work as one. I feel the sweat between my breasts, I feel the heat from the road on my body, my arms glisten with the light from the setting sun. I reach the crest of the hill and then I sit down, knowing that this part is the best; the adrenalin rush of the downhill. And like being on a horse, my bike and I gallop. I lean forward and with butt on the smooth leather saddle we fly. The hot air in a rush dries my exposed teeth as a grin spreads itself on my face. Deep in my soul I felt alive cycling on that day's sunset.

The Hidden World

Do you believe in fairies, elves? Laugh if you want. I believe. I have had been around them all my life. Strange things I have seen, incredible things I have experienced. I believe. It's not that I believe that little people come and dance in the moonlight, it's more of a sense that there are other powers, other forces around. My philosophy is, you don't have to see everything you believe in because many great experiences happen with closed eyes.

Many cultures have these tiny, magical creatures steeped deep within their culture. Given this I am so excited about my upcoming trip to Iceland.

Iceland has its elves (hidden people) who are said to be very protective of their habitations. Those who attempt to disturb them are in for trouble. One story is told of the construction of a new harbor at Akureyri in 1962. Repeated attempts to blast away rocks continually failed. Equipment malfunctioned and workers were regularly being injured or falling ill. Then a man named Olafur Baldursson claimed that the reason for the trouble was that the site of the blast was the home of some "little people." He told the city authorities that he would work out a deal with the little people. When he came back and reported that the little folks were satisfied, the work proceeded with no problems.

Icelanders - citizens of one of the most literate nations in the world - take their elves quite seriously. Even today, Iceland's most well-known "elf-spotter," Erla Stefansdottur, has helped Reykjavik's planning department and tourist authorities create maps that chart the haunts of hidden folk. The public roads authority quite often routes roads around hallowed boulders and other spots believed to be inhabited by the elves.

I believe that everyone can feel the little people. You just have to be neutral and listen, control your mind, don't think, just feel, be patient and try. And I believe that everyone in the world has his or her own house elf. I know that I have little people inhabiting my house. Always have. I never talk to them directly, I just acknowledge them through my feelings.

And I won't be coming back from Iceland with an "I am Elfish" t'shirt!!! Don't want to piss off the little people. They are powerful and deserve the fullest respect.

Stories

I write poetry or verse and I write short stories. I express myself through words. I write for me. I find that it helps me ride between worlds. What I find fascinating is that we are thrown into this exisitence and I happen to wonder why and how. Some of this wonderment of mine happens to come out in my poetry as dark. I am grateful to those people who have read my writing and can express their feelings about my poems to me. They can have conversations with me about the words, or the emotions they evoked or didn't evoke. I don't expect awards, I don't expect people to like them.

What I didn't expect was friends not to acknowledge them or to fluff them off as too personal to talk about. Don’t be afraid of the words. They cannot hurt you or me. Writing can only make someone pause and influence ways of viewing things, if you are open. At worst you will go back to the safe world you already know. But I do believe, change is the only true meaning of existence.

What are you Wearing Under Those Shorts?

I love the unexpected. I have joined a weekly cycling group. Being the second time that I have ridden with them, I have grown accustomed to the lead riders riding up behind you and giving advice. I hang onto their every nugget of information while I desperately try to pedal and at the same appear engaged in what they are saying. It isn't easy to converse while cycling when you're building up cardio. Mostly I grunt in acknowledgement or ask a quick question which will then launch these cycling encyclopedias into long explanations. This technique allows me the breathing room I need to get to the top of the hill without totally blowing out or wheezing like a 20yr old smoker.

At one point in the ride, I heard someone behind me say something like, "Are you wearing underwear?" Now I know they were not talking to me because, DUH, I am wearing cycling shorts, so it must be a conversation that I have bumped into. I ignore it. After all, I am dealing with far more important issues, like the upcoming red light and will I need to unclip or can I coast until it turns green and then hoof it. Then I heard the question again, "Are you wearing underwear?" I turned to my left and the lead rider is looking at me. I responded with a brilliant, "Huh?" He says, "I noticed that you have a line in your bikers shorts that tell me that you are wearing underwear. Am I right?" Well, as he put it that way, I answered, "Yes, I am wearing thongs. I don't usually, but I was running late and just threw on my bikers shorts. Forgot to take the thongs off." He proceeded to tell me that it was not a good idea to wear underwear because of breathability and chaffing issues. I laughed at him, and jokingly said, "Wow, you lead riders do notice the little things don't you." We laughed, and he said that it was his job to make cycling the best experience, and if that included talking about underwear, so be it. And then he said that I may need to use Vitamin A & E lotion later on that evening if any issues developed due to wearing my underwear. I am happy to announce that it wasn't necessary. But, I will not be wearing underwear under cycling shorts again because it was a tad uncomfortable!!!

I Dress for Me

I have had the privilege of meeting some truly amazing people who have had profound impacts on my life. One of these people was a wonderful woman in France. When I arrived in France, to live there for two years, I was very shy and withdrawn. This was reflected in the way I dressed and held myself. I wore the uniform of America -- jeans, sneakers, and sweatshirts. I remember being awed by the way the French women looked. They always looked elegant, or cool, or edgy, or whatever look they were going for. They were always going for a look, and it was never the American look!

I didn't think that I could do any other look. I didn't know how. I didn't want to do it. I was comfortable and anyway, why should I. I was who I was, wasn't I? Goddamit, I was happy with the way I looked, wasn't I? I was shy and therefore comfortable being invisible, wasn't I?

For me it went deeper than that. I was having marital problems and other problems and the mixture resulted in a person that was less-than-me. I didn't like my body and I didn't like myself. I didn't find myself sexy, so once again I didn't like myself. I thought the marital issues were "all about me" so once again it was all my fault. Basically, the self-loathing on the inside was reflected on the outside. I was hiding all the stuff that I knew I could be. It was being overlooked by me and by others. Yet, juxtaposed against this self-loathing was a knowledge of other -- of a passionate, life-seeking, loving, curious person dying to break out. Symbolically, I was hiding under the uniform.

Then in stepped my french friend who saw this struggle. One day she looked at me and said, "Is there a woman in there, under those sweatshirts?" At which point I thought deeply. I had hidden the woman in me in some chasm. I had forgotten that there was a passionate woman and had forgotten how to cross the chasm in order to bring her out. So my lovely, kindhearted, stunning french friend said, "We are going to bring the woman on the inside, to the outside." And so we did. We started with the clothes. And the journey has contined bringing the other parts of me to the surface.

To this day I dress for me and as a salute to my french ami. I am more comfortable with my body and with being a woman. I dress because I feel edgy, or I feel sexy, or because I feel businessy, or because I feel comfy. Whatever the reason, I do it for me, not for what I believe it will get me.

Predators Vs. Herds on the Roads

I am pissed. I like to ride my bike solo sometimes. I like to have my coffee, noodle around the house and then when it pleases me I like to take my bike where it pleases me. Why do I need to make plans with other people just because there are jerks out there that don't care about another life?

I admit to being naive. I only started cycling a few months ago and it was only until recently that I avoided riding on main roads. It wasn't because of the fear of cars, it was because I was afraid of falling off my bike and not having the cardio and not being comfortable changing gears. And then recently I got the taste of riding on the real road. Oh boy, that was fun. No riding in circles. No riding the same 2 miles over and over. This was pure bliss; the early morning dewy smell, the sunrise, the changing landscape, the wildlife. It was all there as the group of us cycled quietly.... ok we were noisily chatting and yelling the things that group cyclists yell to one another in communication. I was learning group cycling etiquette.

I have begun to realize that metaphorically, cyclists are akin to herd animals such as horses, rather than predatory pack animals such as wolves and lions. Like herd animals, a group of cyclists move in the same direction. And the reason that the group exists is protection. The most important protective factor is risk dilution -- because even if a predator attacks, the risk for any individual is greatly reduced. Drivers are like predators because they are faster and more effective at getting away with pulling down a herd member if that cyclist is on their own or in a smaller herd.

That is why I am pissed. I was nearly mowed down on a solo ride. I was without my herd. I was out enjoying the leg burn, playing with cadence, enjoying the speed of the hill, when a car flew close by me at a million miles an hour. The crouching car didn't even inch over to the other lane. As a result, the Doppler effect of the predatory car nearly blew me and my bike over. I nearly peed my pants.

I am still not scared of riding on the roads but I am more conscious of what it means to ride solo. I have been scolded by friends for riding solo. And now they are furious with me and have banned me from riding solo. Why do I have to ride with the herd? I love riding with the herd, but there are times when I just want to ride solo. I guess the price is too high. The predator's need for speed is too high and their disregard for human life too low.

If I understand Darwin's theory of natural selection, I believe we are reproducing predators with unfavorable traits. I thought that we were supposed to be reproducing those with favorable traits. Depends on what you view as favorable I suppose. Funny, I thought the price of a human life as being high would be a favorable trait. Yet, according to Darwin's theory I am probably going to be attacked by a metallic predator. Something is amiss with this theory. And so I join a herd. Luckily we humans are smart and innovative. Because the next group ride gets to stop at a vineyard. My kind of herd!

Professional Guidance

Go hang yourself, you therapist
You cannot assess me to the fullest
Take your words and camera
You think I exist in a coma
I am passionate and private
I'm not paying you for a visit
I did not call you to be told
My issue is that I am too controlled

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I have had a therapist for 2 years whom I love. She is eclectic. By this I mean that she is into Jung, shamanism, dreams, equine therapy, and whatever she finds to be helpful at the time. She is not tied to a particular psycho theory. I love the hills and valleys that we traverse. But occasionally I get a little restless that we are not addressing the "real" issue at hand and go in search of another therapist.

While keeping my current therapist in the background, I endeavored to seek a new therapist. My goal was to find a CB (cognitive behavioral) therapist. Why? In my late teens I was very fortunate to experience a gifted therapist who helped me tremendously in the area of cognitive behavioral therapy. I have always related to this form of therapy as it has a logical component to it. There is a problem and a solution. The solutions entail a different way of looking at things. It is logical and rational. The therapist that I am working with now is more creative; we analyze dreams, we talk about what it means to be an intuitive, and we talk about emotions and analyze how they are useful and not useful.

Cognitive behavioral stuff helps me get the day-to-day stuff under control. I love to live in the analysis world but sometimes that is my undoing. Creating stories about why this happened or how I know this person felt this way but why they acted totally incongruently is OK but tiring. Cognitive is more productive in the short-term and energy-saving in the long-term. I want both. I want to know how to be productive as well as creative/intuitive/empathic.

A few months ago I found a CBT therapist. He seemed to be interested in what I was wearing and his wife's website. I fired him.

A few weeks ago I found a therapist at Duke. A big name is Duke. Yay!!!!! Whatever.... Anyway, I turn up for my first session and like all first sessions it is an assessment. Boring! I even recognized some of the forms -- the " Beck Depression Inventory" questionnaire. It measures three major aspects of hopelessness; feelings about the future, loss of motivation, and expectations. After 2 hours of assessment the Duke therapist assessed me as having a 'disorder'. Finally, a disorder! I was so relieved. That explained everything!!! "Which one?" I asked him. He looked a little confused. And then he told me. I can't say which one because if I decided to run for president in the future this information could affect my running.... Because his answer was open ended I asked him to clarify. He got a little a defensive and asked me, "Do you get angry with all therapists?" Hmmmmm. And I thought to myself, "Derbrain"...

And the conversation continued. He didn't want me to research the diagnosis because apparently there are many definitions and they are rife with intepreation. You have got to be kidding me. Which interpretation was he going by? I assured him that I would not be googling the diagnosis. He asked me how I felt about the diagnosis..... I loved this, how do I "feel". I knew exactly where he was going with this. I felt nothing about this diagnosis, because well, it was based on 2 hours of knowing me or on not knowing me and some of the questions were questionable. And I told him that. They could be interpreted differently. Touche..... Yes, I was smug. This was not going well. I am supposed to be there to cry, to trust, to work on my self, and here I was being smug. ,
Let's skip to the next week's session. I walked into the session and the therapist informed me that he may have been too judgmental in his assessment and he wanted to do a further assessment. Cripey!!! Thank the little people that I didn't take him seriously and go into the rabbit hole of being "disordered." I endured another hour of his probing. At the end of the "assessment" he declared that I did not have what he previously thought after all, but that I had issues. No f~~n shit....

I even gave him a third session, just to see what he would do and I was traveling hopefully. I hoped that after the assessment was over he would ease off and we could get going. I am not going to even talk about the third session. Needless to say that after the third session I told him that I was not coming back. And then get this; I received an email from him. He told me that he was "fascinated by my story" and he hoped that I would come back.

Now, I must say that the ego was stroked. But I am not fascinated by my story any more. I could go back and listen to me talk and talk but I would bore me. I just want to move on and learn skills. I am truly interested in the journey that I am on. Athletes spend so much energy on learning how their body responds to food, developing more efficient movements, responding to mental motivations. Likewise, I am interested in being efficient not only the body path but the mental, heart, emotional, spirit and soul path. And at times I need professional guidance. Whether you call them therapists or coaches, some are good and some are bad. The point is that I need to acknowledge when the guideance of a particular therapist has served a purpose and when I need the guideance of someone new. In the same way that I need to find guideance to learn how to run without injury so do I need to find gideance to learn how deal with my particular emotional, spiritual, and heartfelt world.

I am not so ego-based as to think that I can come up with answers. If I do that, it is like taking a walk where I think that the path is unique but then I find myself noticing that I have seen that tree before, and then I see it again, and again. The same pattern plays it self out over and over. Without learning a new skill to stop or even recognize the pattern, I will keep walking the same path in the woods. I will never get to walk another path. And another path is what I wish to see and experience.

Water Tattoos

I watched Il Postino and fell in love with it. I then decided to watch it again but with the commentary by the director Michael Radford turned on. In a number of key scenes, Radford explains that he used a handheld camera to shoot a long master shot and then did not edit it. To the audience a shot like this seems very simple. Imagine two characters, framed beautifully by pinkish, white washed walls, an overbearing volcano in the distance, the blue ocean in the background, and a conversation that goes on for 2 minutes without a cut. How simple does that seem? According to Radford it is not. It is very difficult to time two actors talking that long, to entertain an audience that long, to setup the lighting with gauzes and filters, and to shoot the long shot with a handheld camera. So many intricate details! This is great cinema.

Yesterday, I had my first experience learning how to dive off a springboard. Watching my friend perform acrobatic, gymnastics in the air before cutting into the water was simplicity in motion. People at the pool stopped and watched him perform. It looked effortless. When I stepped up to the front of the board (nope, no-one was watching me perform), I was trying to remember all the instructions as I attempted my first dive: 3 step-approach, arms back, right knee up, point toes, tighten the glutes, and so on. As I made dive after dive, I was awkward; I received water tattoos as I hit the water in less than elegant ways; there was water in places... well let's just say I was water logged!! It was a challenge to work so many muscles and time the moves, just like there are so many things to set up for and then film a master shot.


As Radford explains, the more the actors worked together, the more the lighting and the cameraman worked with the set, the more mastery they had. The same with diving. The more I practiced each part the less complex it seemed. It became more fluid.


Diving off a spring board is something that I have feared. I remember as a kid stepping onto the board and being so scared of high it appeared from the water. I was pushed off, hit the water painfully, swallowed a tonne of water, and I never went back. This is amazing considering how I love the water. So now I get to master my fear. I had made my fear more complex than it was. And the simplicity of the fear was that I didn't dive. How simple is that? Fear is so simple really. And while it is complex to face fear, it is in the practice of mastering that fear that it becomes simple and effortless. Oh, I'll get water tattoos and feel awkward, but the reward is in the mastery of the complexity that simplicity is born.

The Girl Who Mowed Too Little

I know , I couldn't resist the title considering the topic of my story.

One ordinary evening I was on the phone, having a great conversation and a glass of red wine, when I heard the loud noise of a lawn mower. Now ordinarily this would not be strange, however it around 8:30 pm and dark and considering the length of my grass it was a sound that I was not accustomed to. I moved into my new house two months ago and have been pondering the problem of lawn maintenance. Do I mow my own lawn? Do I hire someone to do it? Let's revise those questions. I don't mow lawns. Yes, I have mowed lawns in the past so I am not some hapless female who cannot work a lawnmower. Do I want to mow the lawn? Hell no!! It is hot and humid here in North Carolina and I can afford to have someone come in and take care of the lawn. I wash my own car; that is good enough!!! So back to the questions. Who do I get to take of the lawn? This question crosses my mind as I pull into the house, and then the question leaves my mind as I close the door. The question arises again when I see the lawn, growing so lush and tall, and then I forget the question and the problem when I close the door. The true problem is not the lawn it is me remembering to make the phone call.

So when I heard the sound of the lawn mower so close I peeked out my back window not really expecting to see any machinery cutting my lawn. But I did. There was a man in a yellow shirt, waving at me with one hand and mowing the lawn with the other. The first thing I thought was, "Thank God I am dressed," and then, "Who the hell is that mowing my lawn?" and then "Was my grass THAT long?".

Staying on the phone, I stepped outside and introduced myself to this mysterious, yet very benevolent character. I hoped benevolent, and not malevolent, otherwise my friend on the other end of the phone would be making a different kind of phone call. The mystery man turned off the mower and I, with a curious but somewhat friendly manner, asked, " Ummm. Hi, and you are....?" He, still with the big grin and hand on his prized mower, said that he was the next door neighbor. Apparently, he had been negligent mowing his own lawn as well and while he was at it had decided to do mine. His wife brings me food and now he mows my lawn. I am still struck by their kindness.

Now my lawn is mowed!!!! I am now wondering how I can make this a regular thing!!! Is that selfish? I have another month's reprieve to figure out what I want to do with the lawn. Maybe I'll forget to phone as I close the door.

Vampires are not Only in Fairytales

I love stories about vampires, werewolves, fairies, elves, and ogres. Sitting in a comfy chair with a latte and a biscotti watching a vampire movie or reading a fairytale is great for filling up the soul. Images of wonderful beasts relished, magical notions bring sighs, journeys of the heros send thrills, good triumphs over evil, and stardust is sprinkled everywhere.

Sitting in a restaurant with friends I misunderstand one friend. This misundstanding had me inviting a newcomer to our little party. The newcomer was newly divorced which immediately led me to have empathy for him. But this empathy evaporated as quickly as water thrown on red hot lava rocks. He talked about nothing but his houses and his money and how his stunning wife was going to get the million dollar house and how the lawyers were involved. But according to him she is happy because she will still be doing the botox, and shopping, and doing all the things that she does. And on and on he went about the material things. There were no feelings. He was quite rude about the whole thing.

This vampire of energy just kept sucking and sucking all the party out of our party. As my friend put it, he actually sucked the energy out of the table itself. I was amazed that one person could be invited to a table and not be interested in anyone at the table beyond what they did for a living. My friends were a lot politer than I was because at one point I made it clear that I was not happy at the way he was talking about his wife. He made it clear that he did not like me and left.

I have a philosophy. I try to only put things that I love into my body. And damned if I am going to let someone rip all the good energy that I am trying to invite around me. I was not going to sit around and listen to more bullshit. I have too many friends who put the good into the world. And when I have to sit and listen to someone who puts the bad stuff into the world I don't want to be around it. Hell I don't want to be around me when I put the bad stuff into the world!!! On reflection it may be how he deals with hurt. Regardless, I still choose not to be in his sucking energy flow. It takes me a while to refill my bucket. I don't have to give my energy away to people that I don't know and that I don't like. I choose to keep my energy for myself and for those people that I choose to give it away to that I feel need it.

While books on sucking vampires fill up my soul, the earth-bound sort suck at my soul. The garlic in my food didn't keep this one away, but a sharp, questioning tongue did. Thank you Rand(om) Musings for sharing with us the wonderful wine that helped lift our spirits again.

Short Story: The Train

This is my first short story that came to me one evening. It has some autobiographical elements, mixed in it are realities from the experiences of others. It is not always about me!!!

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Once upon a time there was a woman who was happily married. The marriage was not perfect. There had been hard times like when money had been tight or when it seemed that the passion has expired. There had also been terrific dreams that they had made come true. There had been depression and hurt and joy and so many other experiences, but overall a good marriage. That changed the day he came back from traveling and announced he was unhappy and wanted to separate.

Unfortunately, the cords of marriage don’t break with words alone leaving one magically free. Instead, with those words the woman died inside. She tried to hang onto the belief that this was all wrong, that it would all right itself and return to normal. But it didn’t. The woman sank deeper and deeper into despair. As that despair grew the woman believed that the pain could only be removed by death.

The woman prepared herself for the moment, the only real action she seemed capable of. With finality, she sat down, numbed by the deepness of her despair and pain; she looked around her not really seeing anything. Then she froze and stared because she thought she saw a shadowy shape of a female. She shook her head trying to clear it of the fuzzy feeling, the numbness but the shadowy female didn’t go away. Instead she spoke these words, “You have a choice. Come let me show you.” And with those words everything went from dark.

The woman didn’t know where she was, but intuitively she knew it was a place of between. In the distance the woman saw a train careening wildly out of control and at the back of the train was a platform with a rail and hanging onto that rail was a female. Then she was that female hanging onto the rail. She could feel the train running berserk, but all she could feel and care about was the despair, the pain, the blur through her tears. There was no joy or anger in this place; only coldness, yet she gripped onto the rail. The woman raised her head and at the same time the train turned confusedly and she glimpsed the head of the train and heard a soft “choo choo.” It had such a warm glow about it and together with the soft sound, the thought, “What would it feel like to be there?” pierced through her despairing thoughts.

“I am so very tired”, despaired the woman, “I really can’t make it.” And she let go of the rail with one hand. But the warm, calm feeling of the glowing image snuggled into her and she fought to regain her hold on the rail. And then as if by magic she was standing on the back platform. She had made the decision. She wanted to be there; to be surrounded by that calm, warm glow and to hear the “choo choo” again. She was tired of this dark, despairing place.

Then the memories of what had happened back in reality pierced her and she gasped with the pain of it. The door to the compartment at the back of the train automatically opened and she was uncontrollably tossed in. Falling to the floor she sobbed and sobbed with grief. She remembered the unmade dreams; she remembered the unanswered questions; she remembered the love; she remembered and grieved. Then she began to deny that this was happening to her. With this denial she heard the door of the compartment open and her body began to move of its own accord.

As she passed out of the compartment of grief onto the platform of between, she felt despair again and she wanted to stay. But denial was strong and drove her into the next compartment. “This isn’t happening to me. How could this be happening? Why is life so cruel? Things are going to return to normal, I just know it. If I just keep really busy then maybe things won’t really have changed.” So the woman sat a while in the compartment and thought that she could stay here because she felt numb but not despairing. Yet she kept remembering that warm glow and she looked towards the door. But she kept sitting, thinking this place of denial was better than despair. Then she began to feel joy and at the same time she saw the door open. She grabbed her hair and shook her head and yelled, “STOP.” The door closed.

The woman got up and walked to the door, opened it and stepped onto the platform between. She felt the familiarity of despair but she didn’t want to stay here at this moment. She wanted to visit joy. She opened the door of next compartment and stepped into joy.

She began to laugh. She remembered the wonderful moments, she remembered the tender times, she remembered the happiness. She remembered and laughed. Then she began to feel anger and she moved quickly out of the compartment into the next, feeling despair as she passed between. “Ah, she thought, “I remember you”, and opened the door of next compartment and stepped into anger.

She let the anger cover her. It felt so good. She was angry at herself for not understanding him, she was angry at him for not understanding her, she was angry at the lost opportunities, she was angry at his anger at her, she was angry at the world for not stopping for her, she was so very, very angry at it all. She was so angry she was paralyzed by it. But then she remembered the warm, calm feeling and she didn’t want to be here anymore. “I’ll come back and visit” she thought, “but I don’t want to stay here.”

She left anger and as she opened the door to the next compartment she heard the soft “choo choo.” She stepped into the heart of the train. The warm glow was everywhere; it was inside her, it was outside her. It was the center. It was all compartments; it was no compartment. The train no longer weaved aimlessly. It had found its tracks. She looked around her and for the first time she noticed that things were not blurry. She went to the window and looked out and saw with clarity. And she found that she could control the train in the direction that she wanted to go. The compartments would always be a part of the train. But she also discovered that she could add compartments and remove compartments and that she could visit any one of those compartments any time. After all it was her train, her journey.

Then the woman was back in the cold of the bathroom, sitting on the frosty tiled floor. She looked down at the pile of pills cupped in her hand. She stiffly got up, flushed the pills down the toilet and with a smile said out loud to the Universe “Choo Choo.”

For those of us who believe, she did live happily ever after. “Choo Choo”

Not a Master of Release

How do you say goodbye? A year ago today my ex-husband asked for a divorce. The week leading up to today has been filled with emotions. I believe that the universe only sends you things you are prepared to receive. The universe knows when you have the skills to deal with something and then sends it your way. The question is do you have the courage to take on the challenge with the new skills.

This week has been a pensive one. Two things happened. The first one happened when I found a remote for a fan that belonged to my old house. I loved that house. I had remodeled the kitchen to one that was close to my dreams. It had great light. It was spacious. When my ex-husband asked for a divorce, the house and I went through a lot. The house felt my rage, my pains, my abandonments, my joys, my laughter, my tears, my strengths, my weaknesses. I found my voice there. There was also enough space for my shoes!!

A year later I was driving into the old neighborhood, and my heart caught in my throat. The tears started to fall. My hands automatically steered the corners. I sobbed and sobbed. I could barely leave the car to put the remote in the letter box. Seeing other cars that were not mine in the driveway was too much. I sat there for a little bit and then moved off. I phoned a friend. She has a wonderful shoulder and laugh.

I have been in my new house for over a month and I just now find the remote. Why is that? What do I need to see? To experience? To learn?

A few days after seeing my old house I received a text from my ex-husband. He had just returned from his yearly pilgrimage to Canada. In a synchronous way this is exactly what happened last year. On his last pilgrimage he felt free and determined that it was me that was the issue. Hence the divorce. His text indicated that he had returned and that there were some papers to sign. More papers??!!

We decide to meet but in the meantime I get it into my mind that I want to get out of town for the weekend. I was not sure where I wanted to go -- Keswick in West Virginia, Washington, DC; Charleston, SC. I just know that I needed to drive somewhere. It had been a tough week and I was in love with the thought of traveling somewhere. I am such a spontaneous person, maybe I have gypsy in me. And I wanted to share this spontaneity, this joie de vie with someone. However, the universe had other ideas.

I met my ex-husband and I signed the papers. I asked him about his trip and his family. I told him about my upsetting trip to the old house. And then I was blown away. He told me that on the way back he drove through West Virginia and he started to think about all the good times we'd had at Keswick. And he started to cry. Now in our 14yrs of marriage this guy never showed any emotion. He never shed a tear. Holy crap!!!

And it was then that I felt such incredible disbelief and numbness. Why does it take this for him to show what I always asked him to show? I disconnect from my body, a valkyrie from a different realm wanting to do battle. I realized then that I am no master of release. I have been hiding my heart. I have been so desparate to let go, I have masked letting go. In fact it has been tearing me apart. It's not that I want to hold on, because that is not good either. Some days I feel angry, sad, and numb. The numbness has been masking my feelings. I want to say goodbye to that. I want to hold what we had in my heart and say goodbye. I want to be. I want to feel again. I want to feel the realness again. I don't want the numbness to control me. I want to reconnect. The universe is very smart. For now, with the skills that I have, this is what I have learnt. I may not be ready tomorrow to feel the realness, but the numbness has been pierced. Now, when I say that I am "letting go" it will sound less hollow in my ears.

P.S. I have decided not to leave town. I am content to stay rather than run away. OK, my friends have that plane with a parachute, and we are going to fly down to Charleston in a week or two. Whoo hoo. Drive or fly? Do I need to say more...

Can Men Be Friends with Women?

It has been brought to my attention lately that it may not be possible for men to be friends with women without wanting to screw them. This is an emotional topic for me. It saddens me to think that I cannot trust men because all they are thinking about is how to manipulate a situation to bed someone. Is the world so basic and shallow? How can it be possible? How can men possibly want to have to have sex with any woman that they are friends with? Don't they have respect for women? Themselves? Don't they have other things to think about? Are they always ruled by that "other". Sheesh. So I have been gathering data in order to clarify this question. I have been asking everyone that I meet what their thoughts are.

My mother's response was "How immature!! Only a boy would think that way. I hope that you are not dating anyone who thinks like that."
"Ummmmmm, no, not dating, Mum," I said quickly. I wasn't lying to her, really I wasn't. Technically I was being truthful.

Then I asked a close male friend and he has many women friends, including me, that he doesn't think of in any sexual way. Phew!!! And no, he is not gay.

I took a poll in a bike shop with the staff. Off course the data was skewed because I was a potential customer!! They were flirting as they are supposed to do to get a sale so they agreed to the theory but I will put that in the outlier section as dirty data.

I asked my female friends and they agree that they have male friends who couldn't possibly think about them sexually. In fact they become quite upset to think of the possibility. The friendship is so important and there is a level of trust that is tampered with if the sex boundary is crossed.

A friend's husband agreed with the theory. He believed that men couldn't be friends without wanting to have sex. His wife was not happy. We are both baffled by this belief. But then maybe my friend's husband is all talk because a funny thing happened at lunch. I was sitting having lunch with a male friend when my friend and her husband happened to come into the restaurant. My friend and I were close to the end of our lunch so we chatted with them for a while and then we left. A few hours later I caught up with her and she told me that she told her husband, "That guy is trying to bed her." Her husband replied, "He can't do that, he's married." We both laughed. Perhaps this theory has holes in it!!!

If I thought that I could not have a relationship with men without wanting to have sex with them I would feel I was stuck in traffic. I could not relax. I would feel out of control. I would always be wanting to please, always be tuned up, always be trying to be something that I am not, always wanting to look perfect. I would be exhausted. I prefer to be picky in who I am attracted to and to give that person all my attention and to develop a kaleidascope of wonderful friends.

Awesome Inspiration

This blog is dedicated to those people who inspire me, especially Cindy.

A funny thing happened while in Cindy's office. As is typical of most mornings, I popped into her office to talk about what was happening in our lives. The day before a relationship I had enjoyed and which had grown slowly over time had changed direction. Cindy had had her car broken into while running in a park on the weekend. We got to talking about running. She runs a lot. She even has a trainer. Wow! I have always been impressed because running makes me gag. I have a lot of fear around running because of all the injuries that I have seen.

She told me about the training session that she'd had with her trainer that morning. Sounded painful to me. Lots of pain. We talked a bit more about my relationship issues and I mentioned that I really should start swimming. You know, exercise makes one feel better. Right? Then she mentioned that I should do a triathlon. Huh? How did we go from ended relationship, to swimming, to a friggin' triathlon. She got all excited and started talking about an upcoming triathlon that is small and doable for a novice -- the Ramblin Rose triathlon. She pulled up the information on the web and started telling me that it is only a 250 yard pool swim, a 9 mile bike ride, and a 2 mile run. Huh! The sound of waves are crashing in my ears as anxiety sets in. She merrily talked about getting a coach, buying equipment, how to start running. Meanwhile I am hyperventillating. Where is that paper bag someone? 2 mile run? Bike ride? 2 mile run? bike? run? I don't do exercise.

I agree to do it. Did those words actually come out of mouth? I am screeching in my mind, "I can't this, really, I can't do this. Isn't anybody listening to me." Well off course not, you idiot, it is a silent scream. Cindy and I go out to lunch and we discuss all sorts of logistics and then we end up shopping for a new swim suit and some other athletic things. This is only the beginning. I am filled with fear, but I am going through the motions.

That evening, filled with a mixture of fear and courage, I swim. I love the water, until I start swimming. I mean swimming. Not just paddling. OK, now the water is heavy, I am heavy. I get the giggles. I do 4 laps. What's that? 100 yards. I am out of breath, legs are aching. Oh boy!! When is that triathlon? So I decide to do a few slow laps, breaststroke style, just for grins. After all I just got in the water. I can't get out now, can I? Can I? I thought about doing a lap or two doggy paddle, but the ego was not into that. A few laps later I am thinking "I am going to kill Cindy". But I remembered her excitement, her motivation, her pure joy in helping me. Cindy has no agenda except to help people become empowered. I feel honored to have such a friend.

So I do a flip and start down the lane again, this time like a pro doing freestyle. Then I decide to float on my back and do some kick exercises. This type of kicking burns the quads. And while I was into the burn I missed the cue of the flags as I glided under them and kapow, I hit my head on the wall.

Now, wasn't that a clear message from the universe -- I need to be present. I have been dreaming and being, now I need to find a balance and do. And to do this I need to get back in my body. I need to be present to everything around me, not just what is inside me.

Thank you Cindy for reminding me that I have the freedom and the power to try anything. I look forward to running with you.

Gotta Tri It

It's almost been a year since my marriage ended. A year! It's hard to believe. So much has happened to me. I went to hell and back. The way to hell is well grooved for me. The last 4 or 5 months have been better and I have met some great people. But still I travel to hell. U
More recently I have managed to turn hell into a creative soul space, but at times like now, it is an old pattern of destructiveness. What is different about now? Usually I am confident, and happy, but now "cruella" (read previous post) gets her friggin' claws into me and the judgmental, negative thoughts never stop. I recently went on a retreat and that's when they began. Ironic isn't it. I go to a retreat to feel good and I end up a basket case. What began were the past negative thoughts in abundance -- I wasn't good enough, I wasn't pretty enough, I wasn't nice like them, I wasn't open like them, I wasn't.... and the list went on and on. Cruella and her hordes were dining. The damage was done. And the insecurities of the past now loom BIG in my mind.

And to add salt to the wound, in my insecure, pity party, it seems as though my friends have been telling me that I need to be on my own, I shouldn't be dating, I should be getting my head right, I am doing this and that wrong. Months of this. I have been arguing with them that I am doing what I feel I need to do to heal. It may look wrong from their perspective and yes I may cry and get hurt but I am not going to cocoon myself from emotions or life. Am I going to look back and say they are right? I can't say right now.

In this time of feeling insecure I have become turned around. I have made some emotional mistakes that I regret. So you know what?

I have signed up to do a Triathlon. Me who can't climb 5 flights of stairs without calling for an oxygen mask. Me who can't run 500 yards without getting a stitch in their side. Me who splashes in the water and thinks that aqua aerobics (ok I can swim 250 metres without drowning). Me who hasn't been on a bike since 1996 and then I looked like Dorothy. I have until October to train. I have never been athletic. I look athletic, but looks can be deceiving. The one thing I know is that a consistent workout will boost my mood. I am going to take care of my body. I have been taking care of my mind and my soul. Now I need to mend my heart and my body.

Get the Epsom salts ready!!!

Battles on Mount self with the little "s"

Until recently I have never considered myself a writer. UGG, UGG, UGG. A writer? Me? Writers are those people that can keep me glued to my chair for hours as my emotions ride the rollercoaster of whatever images and nuances and feelings charge through me. Reading a book is similar to sex. Sometimes it is just a quick read, sometimes you sneak to the end because you just got to know how it ends, sometimes you throw it out, and sometimes you just sit back and enjoy the mystery of the emotional ups and downs that lasts for hours. And like sex, some wordy experiences are memorable, others you want to forget, and others you totally forget.

And then there's poetry. Double UGG. I yawn when I think about poetry. Reading poetry is hard work because in a small amount of words so much is said. Stories have the luxury of explanation. Poetry is a story in shorthand; cryptic shorthand filled with symbolism. Now my worst fears have come true. I am writing poetry (although I actually think of them as lyrics, a poetic song. What? Changing the name makes it more palatable?). I have joined all those blogging, writing fiends in spewing their thoughts and feelings on the internet. Am I crazy?

And so I fight my inner "Cruella" who wants to label me a no-talented, vain, idiotic, crazy, stupid, inarticulate nobody. It is a continuous battle. This battle is really the "self with a little s" or the ego, striving to keep change, growth and expansion in check. The ego likes to maintain the status quo. The ego is very smart in developing whatever mechanisms it can for survival. Whenever the ego feels that it is losing its place in the battle it rears its head. And because I believe that naming things gives them less power, I have named my little self or bad ego "Cruella". Cruella leads the battle with a horde of beasts that come in the forms of magnifying events, forecasting future happenings, labeling, musterbating, blaming the self or others, discounting the positive, jumping to conclusions, over generalizing. No longer are these mechanisms serving any purpose and a new battle is on; the "self" against the "Self". According to Jung the "Self" is the whole; the integrated individual's personality. It is when the unconscious and the conscious come together. Did I just digress? And to think that a very good friend paid me the highest compliment imaginable when he said that he loved the way I thought, the way that I processed information.

Through a process of being curious, I have discovered that poetry is one way that I can let the spiritual or the unconscious part of me have a conscious form (see I didn't digress). While Cruella is at my side as I write, the battle is stemmed with the emergence of the Self. The Self becomes bigger and more powerful as I tune in to what I want to write. When you engage at the Self level you can't stay the same. That's the way it works. Writing in this manner gets me to talk about things on my own terms, in a poetic way, in a way that’s inspired from the authentic Self. I am stunned at this urge to write, a form of expression that I detested. And not only do I write, but I actually make it public. I am crazy after all!

What I love the most is receiving feedback. I thought that I would be defensive when people read my poetry because currently my writing is autobiographical. What hurts the most is when I ask friends to read it and I get no response. Then my "Cruella" greedily climbs Mount self with the little s as I think, "They obviously think that I can't write but they are too polite to say something" or "I am too intense" or "blah blah." But that's Cruella and her hordes at work and knowing this provides a way for me to be less judgmental on myself and others. In addition, I have more curiousity about myself as opposed to judgment. I love hearing how different words mean different things to people, how some poems touch some people and not others. Some people think that I am dark while others see beyond that to a person who is seeking and being curious and brave. Most people want to talk to me about the poems and what they mean. They also see it as a way to connect with me about their lives. I have found that while I feel vulnerable I am more approachable. Sharing my writing, while scary, has provided me with humor, trust, connectedness, and deeper friendships. My expression through writing, poetic or blogging comes from my authentic self and when I put it out there it is free. It is free from being personal, it is free from Cruella.

Not all is perfect in this growing and unmapped world of mine. Cruella continues to be happy as she finds new battles to fight on Mount self with the little s. I would never have guessed that something I was so scared of has become a compass that is helping me find my way. It's been about learning to recognize when the "self" is readying for battle. It's been about discovery and remapping my thinking. The "Self" is released from the battle.

I use the words of Pablo Neruda's poem titled Poetry, to express what it feels like to be in a creative space...

Poetry

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

Pablo Neruda

I Want To Be...

A new poem was born while I was on a retreat. The poem came to me while I was sitting and being with my feet cooling in the H2O of a waterfall. It is an invitation to be.

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I Want To Be

I want to be the honeysuckle vine that grows limitless in shadow and sunshine
I want to be the bubble in champagne that tickles up a smile
I want to make the noise of cicadas as I love with abandon
I want to be water, running with clarity
I want to be a firefly, dancing with childlike magic
I want to be a rock that can safely carry the weight of my intensity
I want to be space, knowing the rules of the universe yet still forming
I want to be night, where my dark soul can wander in creativity
I want to be light, in touch, in thought; a beacon from the dark
I want to be a chameleon who has the memory to adapt, yet remains authentic to form
I want to be the moon, happily chillin' out alone
I want to be a dolphin, part of a family swimming deep yet resurfacing
I want to be a rainbow that inspires others to search for their pot of gold
I want to be the spirit of me.

Packing the Past or Is It?

This memorial weekend was mainly spent packing up my house. So many emotions are involved in packing a house. I have done it many times. And it is never easy no matter the reason. This time it is because of a divorce. My first divorce I just walked out with my clothes and left him the house and everything. Money and things are not important to me. Never have been, never will be. This time my ex and I split everything 50/50. I swear after packing for hours and hours and hours I wish I just walked out. I started the packing saga knowing that at one point I was going to reach saturation and my perkiness would turn into "when the f*** is this going to end?" I was right. I lasted about a day and a half before I reached that point.

The monotony of packing gives someone like me lots of time think. Oh boy.... That means trouble. So what did I think about? Well packing off course!! How does packing correlate to my life and current situation? Hmmmm. When my ex and I first separated, I was crushed. It doesn't matter that it was the best thing, the act of severing a dream is painful.

When he had decided to move out, I remember going through the act of sifting through the photos with him. I am one of those people who believe that memories should not be rewritten but should be remembered in the context in which they were experienced. When my ex refused to take some of the photos I was upset but that was his choice. And loss. I don't believe in staying in the past; if you do you'll miss the present and the future. But not to acknowledge the past, well it is a choice. There is no judgement. OK, maybe a little!!

It was a difficult few hours as we went through the house, deciding who got what. I shed many a tear as my heart was tearing into pieces. I kept thinking "How can he be so calm?" but then again, he never did show emotion that I could read.

Fast forward 6 months to me packing up because our house finally sold in this soft market. My ex was over packing up his last stuff. Feelings are so different. No tears, no tearing of the heart. We laughed, we joked. How can feelings be so fickle? After 14yrs of marriage? Yes, I have done lots of work dealing with the separation. It was easy being in his presence. That is the word. Easy. There was nothing there. There was no anger. There was nothing.

Being in his presence I saw his "stuff." I saw his anger, his impatience. I felt nothing but compassion. And who knows, from his point of view I still have mine. I felt different. We acted differently together. So I have to believe that something has shifted. The "stuff" is packed.

I don't believe that I have packed the past. It is still there. It is just put aside in a special place in my heart of understanding. Why do we have to let go? What use is that? As I navigate around the packed boxes I am happy.

Pain

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that's bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they're afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they're wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It's all in how you carry it. That's what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you're letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.” Jim Morrison

Why are people so afraid of the dark side, of pain, of love? Of opening up, of sharing thoughts, feelings? It never ceases to amaze me that we were given a gift of speech and communication and yet we are so confused by it. We struggle so much with it. We find it so difficult to come up with the words to describe what makes us happy for example. What is happiness? Such a slippery concept. Is pain an easier concept? If so, why? Is it scary to you that I can talk about pain? That I feel pain? That I expose my pain in poetry? Pain can be embraced and be a creative part of life rather than debilitating. Words are powerful; they are not to be feared. Feelings, pain, happiness, love, need to be expressed in many ways. Imagine expressing without fear. Live life as you dream it.

What is pain? Pain can be emotional as well as physical. I have both. At times my physical pain is so intense I just want to scream but only I can hear. Chronic pain is debilitating. So is emotional pain. I am not ashamed of my pain. It is my reality. Pain changes. I refuse to let the fear of pain deny me the other side of the coin - love. Who knows when this will happen but I travel hopefully. On my wrist I wear a band that reads "Love Faith Believe Dream." These words remind me to have faith in myself, to believe in the power or the present and the future, dream of possibilities, and that love I have yet to experience is possible.

Awakening

Surrounded by real love
I feel the difference now
The other kind fits not like a glove
But a clumbsy bow

Going down the path of old is cold
Eyes pregnant with tears
Mind and soul numbed and sold
Drama of yesterday awakens no fears

Rooed Awakenings

These are just a couple of poems/verse, whatever you want to call them, that I have written over the last couple of months. These words try to capture the disturbances in time as I dive into the darkness and resurface.

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Why Begin?

Lips unused
Breasts scarcely touched
Tongues rarely connect
Eyes, distant and unreadable
Inside thighs still white
Hidden thoughts disassociate feelings
Sandpaper of anger strips away passion
Why begin?

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Duplicity

Saintly, she saw him,
Loving, always Caring.
Priests cleansed his soul,
sanctioned it whole.
A husband without sin.

Wrong, she saw him,
Touching, always Watching.
Cleansed is not his soul,
fragmented, not whole.
A father with sin.

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On the Back of a Dragon

Warmth is turned back by a hugless reunion
Words are muffled by the noise of the crowd
Concrete floors echo tired luggage wheels
I have arrived

Romantic thought of lover's greetings twist away into foreign signs
Pressure inside builds from confusion
Eyes feel what the mind thinks
I exist between

The dragon remembers, the stomach heaves
The dragon knows, the heart breaks
On the back of the dragon is to fly free — fast and gentle
I climb on

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Stardust

She lived everywhere
You found her online
You chatted for days
The banter breaking into flirts
You met her, her eyes, her intensity

She lived everywhere
She got lost along the way
She still gets shaky
But less and less
You take her in your arms
And laugh with her
She whispers softly, "Go real slow"

She touches your ears
And you watch the rhythym of her breathing
Her lips gently bruise your lips
With your heart beating fast you go real slow
If all your dreams come true
Do your memories still end up haunting you?
Is there such a thing as letting go?
To another place, another realm

And now you're leaving for home
You watch the lights change
You have a choice to make
She lived everywhere
Can she live here?
You remember and you choose
You walk away
She turns to stardust

Power of the Badge

Perth -- Day before I Return to the US

Today I visited another old friend of mine. I met her when I was 16yrs old. She is an amazing woman, and has been a huge influence in my life. But that is a story to be shared over a great bottle of wine.

Driving back along the coastal road, my sister, the policewoman, was doing her usual thing. OK, some background on my sister. She entered the police force May 15, 2006. At first she was on general duty which is frontline policing, such burglaries, assaults, domestic violence, drug issues, and so on. They are the usually the first respondents to a call. The stories she has told. No wonder there are so many "reality" police shows on TV. There are a lot of stupid nuff nuffs out there. Every police person has to spend 2 years in the country; she only spent 3 months in Newman before being transferred back to Perth. Another story in itself.

She was transferred to the Crash Investigations unit. She is now a Crash Inquiry officer. In addition to traffic enforcement, she investigates hit and runs that involve injury or accidents that are considered major damage (over $7000.00).

Driving with her is like driving with a traffic violation handbook. Without turning her head she seems to know what every driver is doing wrong. I now have whiplash as I keep spinning my head around saying, "Where? Which car? That one? What?"

They call traffic cops "road nazis." Hmmmmm, driving with her I can see why -- lol. My sister had promised me a ride in the patrol car. I was so excited. To get to push the "Yelp" button. Yip the button that goes "whoop whoop" is actually labeled "Yelp" (how's that for usability). Unfortunately, that experience did not eventuate, so we practice our own version of pressing the yelp button whenever we see someone doing something stupid, like illegal U turns, speeding, driving without lights at night. This version entails yelling "whoop whoop" at any nuff nuff and then laughing. Juvenile???!!! Absolutely.

Back to the drive along the coast. We are talking, laughing, and yelling "whoop whoop" every now again, when my sister looks in her rear vision mirror and becomes very still. With gritted teeth, she says, "Can you believe that? Driving with an expired registration and on the mobile. And he's not even paying attention to the road." She was pissed. I went very quiet. In WA, it is against the law to be on the mobile whilst driving.

She pulls out her badge from the middle console and twisting her hand behind her she holds it up to the back window. The guy in the car is still not looking out of the front car window. How do you drive and not look out of the front? Where is that "yelp" button? My sister is now getting more pissed. She says under her breath, "Put down the bloody phone you nuff nuf," and waves her badge more wildly. Now she is getting more agitated. Oh boy....

I reach over, take the badge from her, lean over further into the back seat, desperately waving the badge in the back window to get the guy's attention. I want my sister to be laughing again. I desperately talk the guy as though he can here, "I would put down that phone, really I would". Finally, he looks up and suddenly the mobile is closed. Phew!!!

My sister looks over at me and says, "Impersonating a cop, hey?"

Shit. I look at her and retort, "I was an extension of your arm. Let him try and prove that my arm was not your arm." And we start to laugh.

She says, "Today a mobile, tomorrow a seat belt."

To which I responded, "Tomorrow is 'hands behind your head, and spread those legs'." Laughter is a great healer.

Meeting with Shelob in the Vineyard

Margaret River -- Shelgary Vineyard

Early on in the evening I decided to go out for a walk. It was the beginning of a beautiful dusky evening. The kookaburras were laughing, the kamikaze bugs were making their suicidal attacks, the sky was pinkish, and kangaroo poop was everywhere. The vineyard was gorgeous; the rows of vines stretched out row after row and then out across the horizon.

I walked down the rows of the vines checking them out. It was beautiful -- the colors, the smells, and the sense of time hanging in the branches.

I rushed back to get my sister to join me in the walk. It was too beautiful not to share. By this time it was getting darker, but we were still able to see and hear the Australian countryside which has a prehistoric sound to it. Poka, the chihuahua, was springing all over the place. As my sister and I walked down one row of vines we walked into a spiderweb. Now usually I am good with spiderwebs and just peel off the web and move on. But my sister was a little freaked. "OK, where is the spider? How big is it? Damn bloody great spiders! They're everywhere and they get into your clothes and they are as big as your hand." She went on and on as she was trying to get the web off her. I tried to relax by saying it was no big deal but she kept on. So now I was starting to get a little freaked. What did I know about spiders in the country? Bloody hell.

We must have taken about 10 feet when we saw Shelob's web (for those of you who don't know Lord of the Rings, Shelob is the giant, evil spider). It was huge. But then I sighed with huge relief as I saw the littlest of spiders in the middle of the web. I started to laugh which then turned to a gasp as the mother of all spiders climbed up ponderously from the bottom. "Holy crap!!!!" I yelled.

"See I told ya", shouted my sister gleefully. "What did I say."

"Fine you were right, you were so right." I said laughing hysterically. "Shit, does it jump?" as I moved in to take a picture. I was giving myself goosebumps and Poka was trying to jump up at it. I wanted to run as images of Shelob the evil spider kept shooting through my mind, but I needed proof.

Apparently what we'd run into was called a Golden Orb. Their bite is like a bee sting (nice!!). We also learned that there are millions of them around vineyards. Millions??? OK, one introduction was enough.

Koffee Anyone

You can't just get American style drip coffee in Australia. Starbucks or whorebucks opened about 30 stores in Australia over a 4 - 5 year period and ended up closing about 10 of them becuase they weren't doing enough business. I love Aussies!!! What you get is the good stuff based on espresso.

There is the flat white (means 1/3 espresso and 2 parts of properly steamed milk - i.e. milk with a smooth silky texture but no extraneous extra foam). Then there is the latte served in a glass, just like in France and Monaco **sigh** (pic is a latte served in a glass with latte art that I received on Mother's Day at one of my favorite cafes called Tarts). I love that. It's so, pleasurably sensual to see the richness of the layers of the coffee and foam through the glass.

Off course there is the cappucino. Then there is the long black, the short black, the macchiato, the baby chino. And thank god there is no Dunkin' Donuts. And most of the coffee cafes serve wonderful food as well. It is the experience of having a barista make your coffee rather that a barista machine (take that Starbucks!!). Then you get to sit and read, or ponder a thought, or chat with friends, or people watch or whatever. The point is not to rush in, rush out and leave the coffee chilling on your desk at work. My motto is "Don't put something in your mouth that you don't like or love!!!" (Yeah, I know I am opening myself up with this one...)

Quickie Observations -- part 1

Perth -- Any Day

These are just things that I have noticed since coming back.

Burger King is called Hungry Jacks in Australia. Hungry Jack’s® is a franchise of the international Burger King™ Corporation and has operated in Australia since 1971. The first restaurant in the Perth suburb of Innaloo opened on the 18th April 1971. Since then over 300 locations have Hungry Jacks. Why is Hungry Jacks allowed only in Australia? The Burger King™ Corporation embarked on an expansion program opening company and franchised restaurants under the Burger King™ trademark. This strategy was later reviewed in Australia and it was agreed that a single brand was more appropriate and that the 30 year heritage of the Hungry Jack’s® trademark was the most appropriate to move the business forward.

When you go to a petrol (gas) station you can't swipe your credit card at the pump, fill up, and be on your way. Every car has to fill up and then you have to go into the store to pay. This is very inefficient. The lines of cars at certain times remind me of when I was in France in 2000 and there was a petrol shortage. And this is business as usual. Hmmmm. I am suprised that the petrol companies have not studied this inefficiency or that people have not complained.

Old Acquaintances -- Did I...?

Perth - Day Something

Many people ask me if my parents were in the army or diplomats because I have moved around so much. Life circumstances have just been reason enough to make our family very mobile -- moving not only suburbs frequently but also continents. As a result I don't have friends that I have grown up with or many friends that I have kept in contact with. I am not sad at this, although I do admire those people that do have deep roots -- only if those deep roots allow growth. I have the privilege of still having a close connection with one terrific person whom I met when I was 18. He may live in Paris, but I feel that he is always there for me as I am for him. Time and place have no barrier for us. What is it about his and my connection that has kept our relationship going for 24 yrs? Why have I not been conntected to the people I was about to meet for the past 24 years?

Today, I met my friends (do you still call them that after 24 years??) on another beautiful day, at a cafe by the beach. Just to set the scene. There were five of us: my mother, my girlfriend's mother who knew my mother well, my girlfriend, a surprise guest who was an old boyfriend of mine, and me.

When my girlfriend popped out of her car I couldn't believe it. She looked nearly the same; flaming, long red hair, alabaster skin. And the same mannerisms. She had wonderful laugh lines around her eyes, but she was still the same, at least on the outside. It was weird temporal shift. Her mother had aged more; more due to health issues. But, hell she hadn't changed personality-wise. She was as feisty as ever.

When my ex-boyfriend arrived he too looked the same -- almost. He had less hair, was toned (ok ripped, as he showed me his nipple ring and I showed him my new belly ring), and still had those baby blue eyes. I would have recognized them all had I passed them in the street. We started chatting as though time had not passed. But then we knew that time was scrunched into a few hours sipping coffee. And I remembered something that I had heard once, "Everything the same; yet everything distinct." Even after all this time, things appeared the same, but things were distinct and so different.

The conversation naturally drifted to the past. When I dated my ex-boyfriend he was 23 yrs old and a journalist for the Western Australian newspaper. We got into concerts with his journalist's pass -- that much I remember. He told me he remembered the suburb where I was renting at the time -- I didn't. He remembered my roommate -- I didn't. Are you getting the pattern? He remembered where we met -- I didn't. Ruh roh... What did I remember? Hell I was a mess of an 18yr old. I was working in a restaurant from 8am to 3pm, back at work at 5pm to 11pm. I was messed up, exhausted, plus I was leaving on a year's trip around Australia. My mind was not retaining information.

Now you get to laugh at me and sympathize with him. As we were traveling down memory lane, well I had gotten to the stile but there was no lane, I turned to him and asked, "Did I sleep with you?"
He looked at me with those baby blues and said, "Um, yes. Why, don't you remember?"
Crap, I thought. I was so sure that I hadn't.... "Just kidding... joking, off course I remember," and nudged him on the arm. Cripey. My girlfriend was splitting her sides laughing. How does one recover gracefully from that? To keep intact one's elegance and his ego? Ah, screw it. There was no hope on that one. I just smiled and then laughed.

Later on I kept trying and trying to remember. Days later still can't remember. Does it matter? It was a great visit with everyone. My ex-boyfriend is happily married and I got to meet his two wonderful little boys. He is very successful and my girlfriend is undergoing IVF in the hopes of getting pregnant. They are both very happy in their lives.

They both owe me one though. My ex-boyfriend is my girlfriend's closest friend and I was responsible for this friendship as I introduced them to each other 24 years ago. So my legacy was not to be their friend for 24 yrs but for them to be friends. What a gift. Who knows what this renewed connection will bring -- something or nothing. Whatever it will be, these old and renewed acquaintances will not be forgotten.