Mrs. Joseph's Kitchen

Virtually Real

2011-09-17T10:48:00.000-07:00

One of my friends from ccMixter died last week. His name is Joe Lincoln and he shared his music as Fireproof Babies (“FPB”). I was deeply saddened by his death.. Surprised by how sad. I had never personally met Joe, but I did interact with him. We reviewed each other’s music, leaving supportive comments for each other. I used sonic samples he freely shared in music I created. And there were times when we corresponded with each other outside of ccMixter to offer each other support and encouragement during tough times.

I notified the ccMixter community of Joe's death by posting an announcement on the site forum. I also created a tribute remix for him. The sadness and grief experienced by the community was deep, palpable, real. Many community members knew Joe solely through his music, not having had occasion or opportunity to know him more personally through collaboration or correspondence. For several days, all of the remix uploads to the site were tributes to Joe, utilizing FPB source material. For several days all of the activity on the site was dedicated to Joe.

I believe Joe had no idea how much he was appreciated by us. And if he did, he was unable to internalize it.

I was struck by the depth of feeling that was stirred by Joe’s death. Community members came together in this virtual forum to share feelings that were very real. While I have always felt strongly connected to ccMixter and community members, what became apparent during this time was how vital these relationships truly are. Through music, we make relationships that have emotional impact. The experience of sitting with someone’s music in headphones during the process of making a song is uniquely intimate. You hear their breath. You feel their rhythms. You learn about their creative choices. You incorporate that bit of the other that was freely shared into a bit of yourself that you intend to share. You may know nothing else about the artist you sample but you do come to know the artist through the sample -- even if it is just an isolated aspect of the artist.

The loss of one of our community members, and the way in which we communicated to each other around the loss -- our feelings about this loss -- demonstrated how real our care for one another is. The significance of on-line communities cannot be ignored. (A google search for “study virtual communities” resulting in over 28 million results -- clearly this is a hot topic). In this instance, the value of the ccMixter on-line community cannot be diminished. The care, the concern, the love -- these are among the reasons why I engage with ccMixter in the way that I do. I love ccMixter for how it provides the space for me to know others, and for others to know me, in this unique way that is inimitably vital.

"It's My Party and I'll Cry if I Want To. . . "

2011-07-22T07:41:00.000-07:00

Ever since I was little, I had a bit of a tantrum on my birthday. It probably stems from the narcissistic personality disorder qualities I live with causing me to suffer greatly from never feeling loved enough so that when my birthday observances come around, I am often left feeling depleted instead of filled. The need for such love an armour against allowing such love, when proffered, to make its way in. Then there is also the guilt and shame associated with wanting to feel that love, to feel special – that need engendering a sense of self-loathing for not being comfortable with myself which I have experienced since a very early age.

I’m working on it being different this time.

I remember many of my birthdays. On my fifth birthday we played a racing game. All of the children left their shoes at the far end of a long lawn. We raced from the opposite end, put our shoes on, and ran back to the starting point. I finished last. I sobbed. Not because I was last, but out of indignation – it was my birthday, and as the birthday girl, I should have won! Being only five years old, I got over it quickly -- like as soon as the birthday cake was served.

On my 18th birthday, my best friend threw a surprise party for me, but literally no one showed up -- I think because while she planned everything, she forgot to tell people about it. She and I ate the entire 1/4 sheet birthday cake that was shaped like a jar of Skippy peanut butter.

My 21st birthday was spent in Florence. I ate a giant gianduia wafer in the garret room of the pensione where I was staying, dressed only in my underwear, before going out to the Borghese gardens to see a performance of the ABT where I wondered if the famous male dancer was for real or stuffed socks in his crotch. My 30th birthday was particularly lovely as that was when I discovered I was pregnant with my first daughter. My 40th was lovely too as we had just moved into our first house after living in a tiny apartment – four of us plus the cats in a place with only one bathroom and no closets.

My parents always made a big deal of my birthday. My birthday was important to me too, until the past decade or so when the passing of time marked by my birthday became particularly painful. As I entered middle age, each birthday marked another year when I became farther from my youth, my potential, my beauty, my sadness compounded by the temporal reminder of what I have not done which somehow overshadows what I have done.

Now my birthday is a time of mourning. The months, weeks, days leading up to my birthday filled with grief as I cry for what has passed, for the lack of appreciation I have always had for myself, and for certain choices made that took me in predictable directions, but yet somehow landed me in unexpected places -- like the job I have held for the past 11 years that turned into the career I never in a million years would have imagined or chosen for myself, and which consumed so, so much time of my life, although did provide stability for my family.

Despite all of this, I woke up this birthday morning cheerful in anticipation of some special love from my special loved ones. I am grateful for the opportunity to once again try to let it in, even though I am not so sure that I am yet comfortable in my skin, despite having made it to this ripe, ripe age.

Choices -- The Sequel

2011-07-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

Indelible Choices (w ... by SackJo22

Indelible Choices

Choices may change

though indelible they remain
like ink to skin
Worn in expressions stained by experience reflecting what you did and what you chose not to do
Worn in brief side eyed glances as you cross thresholds escorted by the ghosts of your decisions
Worn in distractions crystalized like breath on frozen window glass
where you pause to peer as you pass. . .

As you pass there is no time

no time for regret.

My regrets are few, but deep
They are the gollum in my dreams and the clocks collected by my father
As if by surrounding himself by minutes and hours he will somehow linger longer.

I have neither a clock nor a mirror.
My life’s reflection transitory
Puddles
Rear views
Your eyes
Facebook
Poetry.

Choices may change but indelible they remain
so that experience is this experience.
Setting up decisions like destiny
Benchmarking probability
If these choices were odds
And I were a booking placing bets
You could make a million bucks
Guessing what happens next.

Choices may change but indelible they remain
The dna of action
Infusing each reach with a legacy of intention
At times unrecognizable,
So that even soma’s messages cannot elucidate the options.
And other times
Clear, inspired, focused, righteous
Toched by divinity
So that those choices are delicate habingers of hope in a life of crises.

Choices may change
Though indelible they remain
Link ink to skin
Coloring history with the hues of your decisions.

Quiet Time

2011-03-26T12:16:00.000-07:00

All of us at the end.

Our play, "Box, Window, Door" ended in a cloudburst of chaos, despite getting a rave review. Last Saturday night (the night before our next set of performances started on Sunday), the entire cast left the show. We had pre-sold tickets for Sunday. I had lined up an entire evening of music. It was a nightmare. Angela Grillo (the director), Evelyn Stettin (the playwright), Ricardo Gonzalez (the stage manager) and I managed to put together a presentation for the audience explaining the process of creating the play based on dreams, explaining the protagonist's story, and explaining a bit some of the symbols and images that recur in the play. We performed some selections from the show and had a "question and answer" session after. It actually went very well. The audience was attentive, interested and had a lot of good questions afterward.

Then my band played and we had some Irish whiskey.

Sackjo22 + 3

Now that the play is over and the large case I had been working on since August has settled, I feel like I can, need to, and should spend some quiet time just writing, processing how I have been feeling, thinking deeply about things, paying some attention to my home and garden which are terribly neglected, and writing down my dreams (my real dreams not my aspirations). I had laryngitis this week. I never get laryngitis. I imagine that is my body's way of informing me I need some quiet time. It's hard for me to occupy that quiet space for fear of being forgotten.

Saturday Space

2011-03-13T12:10:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the first Saturday in a long time when I have not been burdened by work -- legal or creative -- or by illness. The sense of peace as I sat in the early spring garden was more like a memory as I have not yet really transitioned from the space of heart-full anxiety to quiet. Yet the garden was quietly lovely with bird song, intermittent car noises from the road behind the apartments behind our garden (those sounds like waves crashing on the shore), and the white noise hum of various engines or generators belonging to the neighbors. There were clouds so the light was not purely clear, but the clouds were big, billowing gestures in the sky. The breeze was soft. Perennial blooms have burst and I was grateful to sit among them, the palette of the garden gently green, purple, pink, blue, as lavender, pink jasmine, daisy, rosemary and mallow flower. Bees hummed too. I was not able to see from where I sat under the lemon tree, but roses have started to blossom as well.

Clearly, I have not been "shomer shabbat" as I have sacrificed that peace for "duty." Still, I value Shabbat and look forward to this trend continuing -- to have my Saturday space back, to be in my home with my family, Shabbat morning my time for reflection.

Do you want to know what's going on these days?

2011-01-12T23:05:00.000-08:00

Much to my delight, this past week, the ccMixter community was asked to participate in another art gallery event. Artlab in San Diego is a working exhibition and performance space where artists are encouraged to share their process and their product with one another and with the community. I like to think our work with the White Cube Remix project last year helped demonstrate how powerful our communal voice is, and that perhaps opened the door for additional sonic installation projects such as this to follow.

As the admin team started planning the announcement and focusing on the "how to" approach of this event, we agreed the idea that what we create as a community is much more than the sum of its parts was a splendid theme, albeit a mouthful. A bit of googling, led me to the Wikipedia page about "emergence" which describes that very phenomena as observed in all types of systems from meterological systems (think of a hurricane), to chemical systems (snowflakes), religious, spiritual, physical, interpersonal. It became clear that "emergence" is an apt theme for the ccMixter community which transforms elements of a whole; effecting, tweaking and recombining sounds from source material to create an entirely new piece of music altogether.

I plan to go down to San Diego when the gallery opens to be part of some live performances with Haskel, Snowflake, Spinningmerkaba and DJ Queenique.

* * *

But this is not all that is going on. Box, Window, Door has initiated its fundraising campaign as we gear up for our dozen performances set for the first three weeks of March. Being part of this production has been a very interesting experience as we work through our own dreams, as well as the dreams of the characters. The work is intimate and deep in a unique way that I believe originates from the depth of connection that the author seeks to attain in her life through her work. It permeates our interaction as a group so that the air is palpable with spirit during readings and rehearsals. We will start a heavy rehearsal schedule soon.

I love bringing the music of ccMixter to another venue. The music has become another character in the play -- not only supporting action, but at times informing it as well. Soon, I will be very immersed in this process as I refine my curation, start mixing tracks for the performances, and perhaps write some new material as well.

* * *

And that's not all.After each performance of BWD, live music will play. I have not only been involved in booking bands to play during that time, but I will be putting together my own band to do three shows. I haven't had my own band playing my original songs for a very, very, very long time. I definitely have to practice a lot to get the live chops up to snuff. But I have been enjyoing that process very much. The other night, rehearsal was in front of the fireplace with a bottle of wine and a couple of cats hanging out in the living room..

* * *

But there's more: The mundane and every day that demands times and attention I could easily go on . . . and on. . . .

Thanks to Yuransky for the image (one of the ArtLab artists)

EMERGENCE IN LOVE

2011-01-12T22:36:00.000-08:00

As shadows melt when light shines,

we emerge in love.

Snowflake fractal patterns pulsing with meaning
crystallize from chaos into organized forms.
Each random pleasure is a hurricane
encompassing both power and calm.

This synergy is sublime.
When the whole is more than "more than"
different from "the sum of. . ."

It is the emergence of love
rising from the ashes of broken promises, truncated memories, dreams
extracted and treated until all parts
meld into this moment
inextricable from temporal markers.

It is your mouth on my mouth as we kiss.

So take this heart, and this sigh
to emerge in love.

Our conjoined melodies that linger
Rhythms that bind
Our sound the song of intentions combined.

The New Year with the Divine Miss S.

2011-01-01T23:28:00.000-08:00

I stayed up way too late last night listening to music. The divine Miss S. just bought a mandolin earlier this week, and has already taught herself enough about how to play that she wrote a song, that she then recorded with her webcam and posted on youtube. I'm not supposed to share the linkewith anyone; I posted the link on my facebook, but she insisted I take it down, but not before a couple of friends and family had a chance to view it.

New Year's Eve was shabbat, so we just had a quiet dinner. After dinner, H. and I were hanging out in the living room. He was playing his guitar and singing -- serenading me in an odd way doing parodies of Robert Plant which I did not find at all romantic, although it was comical. At about 10:00pm, we heard a knock on the door. A boy arrived with a bottle of sparkling apple juice and two fancy glasses to toast the new year with the divine Miss S. The boy looks a bit like a leprachaun -- he is not terribly tall (5' 7" maybe), slightly round bellied, red haired, and he has a bushy beard. He is 16 and in the jazz band at school with the divine Miss S. While he drives, apparently he takes the bus to school with her. His visit was unexpected, to say the least. You should have seen Haskel bristle with daddy-bear protectiveness! He was hilarious, actually. Trying not to pace around or huff up too big in order to intimidate the poor boy, who was actually impressively gracious and well mannered. Poor Miss S. was totally embarrased, and awkward. Also, our house is a total mess. Miss S. took the boy into the kitchen where they opened the bottle of sparkling apple juice. H. had some too. Later, H. told me he took some just to make the bottle go faster so the kid would be more inclined to leave. We all sat around the living room for a few moments. S. brought out her mandolin. Then she took the boy on a "mandolin tour" of our house, ending up in her bedroom, where she perched on the edge of her bed, holding court while he stood. She has a chair in her room, but the space heater is on it. She did not think to remove the space heater to offer the boy a seat. H. was exhausted, and went to bed after I reassured him I would keep an eye and ear out on the "children." After a short while, the boy took his leave, giving me a hug before he left. Turns out, he told Miss S. he might stop by, but she being a space monkey who doesn't always listen too well, thought he intended to stop by tomorrow so she was also quite surprised by this visit. I think he has a crush on her. She denies it, stating he is this way (warm, generous, and I must admit, somewhat charming) with everyone. H. is very concerned about the presence of any boys around our girls. I had to reassure him that having boys around is actually a good thing for our girls, and that they are good girls who he should trust.

(art courtesy of thepatonegro @ deviantart.com)

not resolutions -- just a list

2010-12-27T22:00:00.000-08:00

write more
sing better
clean, sort, tidy, de-clutter
paint
do yoga
eat better
regularly tell my loved ones that I love them
sleep more
drink less
listen
travel
give gifts
repair
garden
write down my dreams
affirm
source
share
kiss
smile
breathe

21 Years, A Nice E-Mail, A Gorgeous View

2010-12-16T22:02:00.000-08:00

so much love it hurts
not just because the day has come to acknowledge our love
but because the light shimmers behind soft pink clouds nestled in canyons as the sun rises behind me
refining the sharp illumination of daylight
spirits in our midst

so much love it hurts
not because of the gratitude of being able to breath freely without remorse
but because as I think of you, you think of me
sending me your gifts of music and hope
with unconditional wishes for me to take what I will and use as I shall

so much love it hurts
the throbbing aching pulse of vitality
a reminder that the mundane contains as much life
as those spectacular splashes of experience that thrill you into awareness
and simply by glancing in the direction of my routine
I am connected to something much larger than me

so much love
so much love
so much love

your fingers graceful on the strings
stretching easily create harmony
then gently caress my cheek
until you kiss me

The Sunday after Thanksgiving: Carrot Soup

2010-11-29T20:39:00.000-08:00

The Sunday after Thanksgiving. Cannot eat any more left overs. It is cold outside. I have pounds of unused carrots and onions. It's time for carrot soup. I served garlic bread with fresh roast fennel along with the soup.

The Carrot by ~Klakikocia on deviant ART

(Measurements and times are approximate as I threw this meal together on the fly.)

Olive oil
2 onions, chopped
3 cloves of garlic, pressed
2 inches of fresh ginger, grated
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1/2 teaspoon tumeric
1 tablespoon kosher salt (more or less to taste)
2 pounds carrots, washed, peeled and cut into chunks
1 can coconut milk

In large stock pot, saute onions in oil until they become fragrant and soften. When transparent add garlic, ginger, coriander, turmeric, salt, stirring well to blend with the onions. Continue to saute until spices become fragrant. Add carrots and stir to blend well with the onion/spice mixture. Add 12 cups water. Bring soup to a boil, then cover, reduce heat and simmer until carrots soften (or longer if you like). Turn of the heat, and let the soup sit for a few moments so it is no longer boiling hot. Mash the carrots with a potato masher, then using an immersion blender, smooth out the soup. (Alternatively, you can process everything in a blender but it is much easier this way). Stir in the coconut milk. Turn the heat back on, and bring the soup back to a boil, stirring occasionally to blend the coconut milk.

We also had left over fennel so to accompany the soup, we had garlic bread with roast fennel:

2 bulbs fennel (either whole or cut in half), washed and trimmed
Lots of olive oil
Kosher salt

1 baguette sliced in half the long way
Olive oil
Fresh pressed garlic to taste

Preheat oven to 450. Place the fennel in a pan. Coat liberally with olive oil, sprinkle with salt. Place in the oven. Roast until soft and caramelized.

At some point, coat each half of the baguette with olive oil and rub with garlic. Stick it in the oven and bake, checking frequently until it reaches desired toastiness.

Serve topped with the fennel, either sliced or mashed in. This meal is good with beer -- a nice hoppy beer.

Re-emerging

2010-10-10T15:08:00.000-07:00

I am coming off a two-month period of intense work that overtook my entire being so that all of my time, all of my mental energy, all of my emotional energy was devoted to taking care of the business of my job and I had nothing left whatsoever for any other aspect of my life -- my family, my house, my garden, my music, my friends were all terribly neglected during this time. As a result, as I try to shake off the "project" that seems to have seeped into my pores so that it is the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning, I put on my headphones and start listening as a means of reconnecting with my musical community. Although I may not truly feel like this is all really over until I put away the five or six baskets of laundry that languish in baskets on the floor at the foot of my bed. . .

Emerge by ~Mystic-Majinbuu on deviant ART

Tears

2010-07-17T09:51:00.000-07:00

I continue to cry for no obvious reasons, sadness lingering in my heart. Despair as heavy as the humidty that wilts even the drought resistant flowers recently planted in our garden. Only my children can ground me and cause me to pull myself together. Their love and my love for them a reminder that there are inherant meanings.

The Mixin' Kitchen 28 -- Jazz

2010-07-11T08:01:00.000-07:00

A woody bass, some splashy keys, a brush on the ride and vocals that express the pathos of love and lonliness, and you’ve got a fine recipe for Jazz. Mmmm. Delicious.

The Mixin' Kitchen 27 -- Freedom & Independence

2010-06-27T07:33:00.000-07:00

Freedom is nothing but a chance to be better. -- Albert Camus

The Shrinking World and My Expanding Heart

2010-06-26T11:00:00.000-07:00

In the past 14 months, my life has moved into an unexpected, and wildly exciting direction. Through ccMixter.org, I have felt the world shrink as I have started to develop relationships with people from all over the globe. My children think it incredibly odd that I can feel so connected, so close and so trusting of people I have met through the internet, especially as I took great pains to indoctrinate them with “internet safety” speeches as they entered the virtual world of the web via myspace, facebook, youtube and various forums that they visited. Of course, if they started corresponding regularly with folks they met on-line, my protective mother-bear guard would be activated. If they actually met someone they encountered on the internet I would have them traced by special forces.

Nevertheless, I have found some of my internet friendships to be particularly satisfying. Several of the people I have met through my internet activities have become my dear friends. The fact that we are connecting through music and engaging in creative collaboration establishes a common ground and interest that seems to foster genuine feeling. In some ways, these relationships have become the most important friendships as we reflect to each other our creative aspirations, the insecurities and passions that inform us as artists, and our mutual delight at finding each other – our differences in lifestyle and background fascinating and our common ground binding.

I have had the pleasure of meeting some of my “virtual” friends “in real life” including the remarkable Ciggi Burns who traveled all the way from London to visit. I have met MC Jack in the Box who treated us to lunch in Santa Cruz. I met Snowflake, Spinningmerkaba and Goldfish who spent the night at my house and with whom I played music into the wee hours of the morning.

And most recently, I had the pleasure of meeting Gurdonark. Gurdonark lives in Texas but he was in my home town and after many invitations through our correspondence (i.e., “Next time you are in town you better call me, or else. . . “) it finally worked out that we could get together. Gurdonark is one of the first artists to remix my voice at ccM. After that, we worked collaboratively on a piece for Independence Day – God Bless this Land – which was just a joy to work on, as Gurdonark is an informed mixter who generously shares what he knows about electronic music making and resources for tools, distribution and source material. Later in the year, he and I spearheaded The White Cube Remix project together, redefining our collaborative relationship, and sealing his place in my affections. The White Cube was a profound creative experience that impacted me in deep, deep ways – and our relationship as partners in that project will always be special to me.

When he came over, we spent some time in the garden, appreciating the flock of finches that made their way into the butterfly bush. I spied hummingbirds in the sage. Lemon blossoms were gently fragrant. We shared a meal. Before dessert, we Skyped with Snowflake and Spinningmerkaba, who included their new kitten Charles Wallace in the conversation. We tried contacting Spinmeister but he was not available.

Afterward, Gurdonark showed me new places where SackJo22 might be found on the internet, blowing my mind completely as we discovered my voice in previously unknown videos, and learned that hundreds of people are listening to me on last.fm. I had no idea! That was thrilling actually! And the fact that Gurdonark had been watching out for me was incredibly touching. His support and encouragement is incredibly heartwarming – makes me feel excited and hopeful about my musical future.

(All photos courtesy of Gurdonark)

The Mixin Kitchen 26 -- Happy Anniversary!

2010-06-13T10:35:00.000-07:00

I hope you’ll join me as The Mixin’ Kitchen celebrates its one-year anniversary podcasting tasty tracks from ccMixter by revisiting some of this year’s favorites! Thanks to everyone who has shared their support and encouragement this past year.

The Mixin Kitchen 25 -- Memory

2010-05-31T10:33:00.000-07:00

I remember. Do you?

The Mixin Kitchen 24 -- Dark & Brooding

2010-05-16T10:31:00.000-07:00

Goethe writes: Where there is much light, the shadow is deep.

Sometimes I sit in the dark.

The Funk Continues. . .

2010-05-04T07:58:00.000-07:00

I have been sad for more than a week now. Today, despite the sunshine and illuminating light of May, I feel incredibly sad, almost unbearably sad.

The Mixin' Kitchen 23 -- Zagareet

2010-05-02T10:28:00.000-07:00

Listen for the Zagareet — the trilling sound women in lands far away make during celebration — as we explore the flavors and sounds of music from the Middle East, North Africa, India, and other enticing locales.

The Mixin' Kitchen 22 -- On the Road

2010-04-18T10:25:00.000-07:00

A apecial edition of the The Mixin’ Kitchen, as I go on the road with Ciggi Burns and the fine London Ladies Windy Miller and Wild Westy, with a special visit to MC Jack in the Box. Touring the California coast with hurricane-like conditions one night, vistas that inspired breathlessness and tears, the constant companionship of hawks, fine vintage Cuvee, and an abundance of good cheer! (Voice overs were recorded on the road too — so please excuse fidelity issues.)

The Mixin' Kitchen 21 -- The Glass is Full

2010-04-04T10:18:00.000-07:00

When it is dark enough, you can see the stars. - Charles A Beard

Heart-Warming Sun and a Gentle Breeze

2010-03-27T11:13:00.000-07:00

     I woke up feeling pretty crappy today -- depressed, anxious, disappointed. My usual positive point of view darkened by the situation with my car dying, our financial reality and T.'s bad attitude. And then there's the feeling of a lack of sympathy and comfort.
     I did seek comfort in biscuits, which while comforting at first -- slightly salty, a bit of crunch on the outside, soft fluffy and warm on the inside, the butter clarifying as it melts into the center -- just became another symbol of my misery and the tendency toward excess which got me into this emotional state in the first place as I ate way too many biscuits, so that on top of everything else, I suffer remorse and shame for my appetites.
     As I poured myself coffee this morning, my mind raced through my miserable thoughts playing scenarios of avoidance ("I'm not going to talk to anyone today") to scenarios of confrontation ("I want to talk to you! You are just so. . .") My misery itself a source of conflict as I thought of my friend who recently lost her husband and is struggling with her grief over that tragic death; and another friend who has no money whatsoever but rich, rich aspirations; and another who negotiates his nuerosis and health and personal mess as best as he can. In reality, I have nothing to complain about, and yet. . .this moment, quite frankly, is challenging.
     I took my misery, my coffee and a book into the garden. The garden is fragrant with pink jasmine and lemon blossoms. A chorus of birds call and respond, hidden in the trees of our garden and our neighbor's, their songs the conversation of spring which has arrived with heart-warming sun and a gentle breeze so that within moments of sitting in the comfortable garden chair with my feet propped up, the the dire misery I was almost relishing started to dissipate and the beauty that I noticed in the minutae of our little messy backyard delighted me!
     The succulents in pots on the patio have all grown and those with variegated leaves are particularly charming, reminding me of the finish of vintage pottery -- red-lined yellow leaves blending into green, pink blushed tips, and the silver sentinels of the ice plant. The mallow has grown so now it is a screen across the ragged wood fence making me wish we had planted it across the entire far side, its flowers delicate and lovely magenta-centered-pink mandala's, friendly and lovely. The penis flower bush is erect, almost ready to show its colors, the flower stalks tall, firm, but not yet showing their purple burst. Cat mint is growing back, lush and green at the foot of the lavendar which is sprawling, a hotbed of bee activity. The butterfly bush seems to yet again have expanded its girth. H. placed the bird bath where the pomegranate tree was before we moved it to the front and it makes a terrific focal point with artemesia and licorice flanking its base. And I consider the improvements I would like to make -- replace the bench that was moved when we cleared up, add more irisina, plant white lantana under the lemon tree. . .such forward thinking thoughts themselves a harbinger of hope.

(Photo courtesy of Phil Sellens via flickr)

The Mixin' Kitchen 20 -- Spring

2010-03-21T10:34:00.000-07:00

Spring has returned. The earth is like a child that knows poems. Rainer Maria Rilke.

You can listen by visiting ccmixter.org or by playing below.

I Am Breathing

2010-03-11T20:56:00.000-08:00

I got stronger medicine. It works. I finally, finally feel better -- my energy, enthusiasm, and motivation have all returned. Perhaps, even too, inspiration is making its way back in. It is almost spring. The pink jasmine is bursting into bloom. This past Sunday, we roto-tilled the front as we move forward on our plan to replace the lawn with a mediterranean meadow that will use less water, yet weeds are already making their way back -- the sun and nutritious earth promoting their rapid growth.

This week, I started laying down vocal tracks for the latest song we are working on for our album project. I have started my secret remix. I have started thinking about T.'s birthday and how quickly she has grown up. I visited my dear friend whose husband committed violent suicide the week before.

Tonight, I am in San Francisco. I am alone. As I flew up, I was mesmerized by the view of the earth below me. The mountains were craggy, sharp as garden rocks, the edges honed by shadows. I tried to identify the landscape as we flew but I do not think I was terribly successful. There were unfamiliar mountain ranges dotting the earth, dusted with snow so that they resembled a disastrous attept at cake -- lumpy and uneven, but delectible nonetheless with the promise of powdered sugar sweetness. As we approached Oakland, we were parellel with wisps of cloud in an otherwise clear cloud. Wisps of cloud that seemed to race us like ghosts.

After I arrived and checked into the hotel, I wandered the streets for a while. The tourists were so easy to identify -- I wondered if I seemed like a tourist. Although I am a native Californian, I am most certainly a southern Californian having spent my entire life living in Los Angeles. Yet, I did not have a map in my hand as I walked. On the other hand, I also did not walk with a real purpose or destination -- perhaps a dead giveway of my non-local status. I considered going out for a drink, a bite to eat. But I really cannot tolerate eating in a restaurant by myself. While I thoroughly enjoy good food, it is a pleasure I prefer to share with others, or at least privately with the distraction of reading material or my computer. . .so I didn't go out to eat which may be a bit of a tragedy as San Francisco is a foodie city. Although after walking around for an hour, and being solicited for money at least 10 times in that short period of time, I was happy to return to the hotel where I had an overpriced but delicious glass of wine and cesar salad with salmon.

I do value solitude. To be alone with my inner voice is a pleasure. I love to be able to visit with myself in that way. But at the end of the day, I sure wish H. was with me as the room is comfortable and luxurious, and would be better off shared.

The Mixin Kitchen 19 - Feelin' Groovy

2010-03-07T10:26:00.000-08:00

Feelin’ groovy! Infused with the groove, the urge to move, and adding cheer to your mood!

You can listen by visiting ccmixter.org or by playing below.

It is Time for Stronger Medicine

2010-03-03T07:37:00.000-08:00

So far, this year has been fraught with one illness after another. No matter how they start -- ear ache, sore throat -- they all end up in my sinuses and reside there for weeks at a time. And this year, just when I thought I could see the light, I get nailed again. At this point, I am discouraged, disgruntled and depressed trying to resolve sinus infection number three.

As I drove home from work yesterday, my eye was struck by the beauty of the green carpeted hills that were slipping in dusk under a thickly clouded sky, heavy with a taste of rain that may or may not come. I was driving in a technocolor movie set where the expansive beauty of the sky and the hills could only have been created by masterful artisans. By my heart was not really open to what that felt like. I saw it. I did not feel it. That added to my dismay. I am too stuffed up to feel that which inspired me.

I will see the doctor this afternoon. I will get anxious as I wait. I will probably even feel clearer as my adreline will be slightly pumped up by the anticipation of seeing the doctor. I will feel guitly for being there, as if somehow I should not be taking up the doctor's time. But at this point, as I have not seen the doctor since January when this all started with an ear infection (which at that time, had not yet landed in my sinus), I am resigned to the fact that stronger medicine is required. I have tried a gazillion over the counter, home and alternative remedies. At the point, I just need stronger medicine.

Meanwhile, my creative activities have been hampered. I had a day or two in the past couple of months when I was able to sing -- but even those efforts still have some lingering evidence of post-nasal drip. Also, my energy for such work is completely compromised. I managed to participate in some big projects -- Box, Window, Door, two impov performances, several podcasts have been delivered (with distinctly adenoidinal voice overs) -- but I was immediately slammed after each effort with a relapse. I thought I had given myself time and permission to recover, likening the sinus infection to an apt analaogy; after a remarkable year of incredible activity, I needed to take some time to breathe. I was comfortable shutting down for a week or two -- but this is now too much.

Spring is imminent and I want my heart to be open to all spring offers -- its delight, its promise, its potential.

The Mixin' Kitchen 18 -- Oceans

2010-02-22T08:08:00.000-08:00

This kitchen is afloat.

On Life’s vast ocean diversely we sail, Reason the card, but passion is the gale.

Alexander Pope

You can listen by visiting ccmixter, via iTunes (search ccmixter), or with the player below.

The Mixin' Kitchen 17 -- Time

2010-02-07T08:04:00.000-08:00

“All that really belongs to us is time; even he who has nothing else, has that.” — Baltasar Gracian

You can listen at ccmixter, via iTunes (search ccmixter), or via the player below.

The Mixin' Kitchen 16 -- Rain

2010-01-24T08:01:00.000-08:00

“Into each life some rain must fall.” Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

You can listen at ccmixter, via iTunes (search ccmixter), or the player below.

t Player">

The Mixin' Kitchen 15 -- Birds and Bees

2010-01-10T07:56:00.000-08:00

Birds and Bees -- Literal and Fantastic

You can listen at ccmixter , via iTunes (just search ccmixter), or by using the handy player below.

The Mixin' Kitchen 14 -- The Kitchen Sink

2009-12-26T07:47:00.000-08:00

The “Kitchen Sink” episode featuring a non-thematic and rather eclectic stew of some of my favorite songs. Happy new year!

You can listen by visiting ccmixter or by downloading the podcast via iTunes. Or by the magic player below!

WE START AS A WHITE CUBE. . .

2009-12-24T21:56:00.000-08:00

It started as playful banter between myself and the brilliant architect and it turned into the most powerful creative project I have been involved in to date. The light of connection shined brightly as 68 musicans created 94 original tracks as part of The White Cube Remix project. And although it is my voice that is in the "foreground," in conjunction with the "background" of ambient beauty that starts with Gurdonark's samples, this project is so very much about the creative collective that ccmixter brings together. The amount of enthusiasm, interest, delight, inspiration and good will generated from this project has been astounding.

As the remixes started coming in at the inception of the project, I was energized and alert, my breath in that constant state of almost being held as my heart stopped until it had to start again. It was the feeling of being in love; anticipation and infatuation and devotion to this process that became explosive in and of itself, proving that connection, in this case through sound and respect, is indeed a transformative light. I fell deeper and deeper and deeper in love.

And I learned through conversation with others involved, that I was not the only one experiencing this sensation. Many of us recognized that we were witnessing the emergence of something extraordinarily powerful. Those present at the RAM Galleri during the opening have shared with me that the energy contained in this project was palpable -- perhaps not comprehensible, but it was as tangible as light itself.

With my friends and colleagues, we have tried to analyze the experience; what about The White Cube Remix created this unique sensation that we could only attempt to describe, its potentency and vibrancy quite unique We recognized that we were witnessing the idealism of the sharing culture movement in action as the ideas and music flowed between us.

People were thinking about the intentions of the exhibition itself -- to explode/implode the white cube, and what that meant. People expressed how they were inspired by a phrase or specific notion expressed in the white cube poem. People shared that they were simply excited to think that their music would be playing in an art gallery far far away from where they lived and that, in itself, was just so cool! Most importantly, people were clearly thinking, clearly inspired on a personal level by the creative opportunity presented by this project.

Perhaps it was the inclusive nature of this project. The criteria to have one's song played in the gallery was quite simple: the remix had to contain either (or both) of the samples created by Gurdonark or me and it had to be uploaded to ccmixter by December 7. We preferred uploads with an attribution-only license as an expression of our support for sharing culture, and to facilitate future use of the material (we intend to release The White Cube Remix), but that was not required to be part of the sonic installation. As a collaborative work, TWC Remix strikes me as being unique as it is a collection of complete works versus the result of a myriad of individuals contributing "parts" to a whole. It is a "whole" created by an amalgamation of other "wholes." Each mix is like a self-sufficient cell, that when combined with other cells, creates an organism quite distinct from its cellular structure.

On of the goals of The White Cube Remix was to demonstrate how an open, international collective of artists could not only transform traditional notions of what it means to experience a gallery space, but what it means to be part of an international community whose reach, through technological advances, becomes both broader and closer. ccMixter is an outstanding example of how technology brings people together through a creative process into relationship. It is a light that traverses space and time.

I am still trying to fully understand The White Cube Remix. I have been infused with inspiration, awe and gratitude for being part of something that provided not only an exquisite creative opportunity, but the chance to enter into new relationships, and explore existing relationships, which is really what it's ultimately all about -- being connected in light and love.

* * *

Special thanks to Professor Rolf Gerstlauer, the curator of RAM Galleri's 20th anniversary exhibition, for opening the window to the white cube and inviting us in. Special thanks to Robert Nunnally (Gurdonark) for being a most splendid partner in this project, and an ongoing inspiration through the many beautiful ways in which he expresses himself. Special thanks to Per Teglestrom (St. Paul) for attending The White Cube Remix opening, Special thanks to Emily Richards and Jason Brock for bringing the enthusiastic support of ArtisTech into this project, and supplying resources and manpower where needed. Special thanks to Kristine Fresvig and Eli of the RAM Galleri for inviting us into the space. Special thanks to Erik and Inger and our other Norwegian friends who helped make The White Cube Remix happen.

And most importantly, special thanks to the ccmixter community that demonstrates on a daily basis the beauty of creative sharing.

12.17.09 -- AN EXTRAORDINARY DAY

2009-12-17T20:31:00.000-08:00

The White Cube Remix project opened at RAM Galleri. I have been overwhelmed with love for this project, what it represents, the people involved. Playful banter turned into the most significant creative work I have been involved in to date.

My partner, Gurdonark (Robert Nunnally) and I created a blog to describe and track The White Cube Remix project. You can fine it here.

Bob wrote eloquently about his experience of the opening on his blog here.

My dear friend, St. Paul (Per Teglestrom) wrote about his first-hand experience of going to Oslo to the opening here. (And he includes pictures too!)

RAM Galleri posted the video of the opening on its blip.tv page here.

* * *

Today is also my 20th wedding anniversary. H. broke the rule and gave me a sparkling gift anyway. We drank martnis and had a lovely meal together. Next weekend, we will go to Cambria together for a romantic getaway.

* * *

This has been an extraordinary day. I am too busy at work to write properly about it. And I need to process the power of The White Cube Remix as well as the depth of celebrating my love.

The Mixin' Kitchen 13 -- December Chill

2009-12-13T20:24:00.000-08:00

December Chill. Smooth tracks to warm a winter chill and relax by during the holiday season selected from uploads on ccmixter.org of this December and Decembers past.

You can listen here or via itunes (just search ccmixter).

Lucky

2009-11-30T23:04:00.000-08:00

It was dark already. T. was driving home from school, observing the speed limit as she always does since getting her first speeding ticket earlier in the year. Suddenly, Lucky dashed under her wheel and she could not stop in time to avoid hitting him. The people who belonged to Lucky do not speak English. Fortunately, a neighbor was there who was able to translate. T. called me, almost hysterical. My heart was in my throat when I heard her voice, but I was soon relieved when I heard she had hit a dog and had not been in some kind of terrible accident where she or any other people were hurt. I rushed to meet her. The family and neighbors were on the street. A young man was huddled over the body of the dog, sobbing. I took the dog and the mother in my car and drove to the veterinary hospital. The son, a young woman who at first I believed to be his sister, but later began to think was his girlfriend, and an older man followed in a separate car. The mother did not speak English. I have been to this partciular vet hospital a lot lately as my cat had an injury that required a number of visits. The lady at the front desk recognized me. She discussed treatment options with the family, including euthanasia. They called their father in Guatamala. They decided to treat the dog. The estimated cost was approximately $1000. The vet required a $500 deposit. They had no money. T. offered to pay, but as she does not have a checking account or her own credit card, of course, I paid the deposit. The young man, after ignoring us all evening, finally thanked us for our kindness. His gesture made T. well up, tears streaming down her face as she expressed how sorry she was for what happened. He could see that she is just a young girl, but did not have the grace or compassion to offer any words of comfort to her, or to even accept responsibility for the fact that his dog was let out, at night, on a busy street, without a leash. T. and I left, grateful to get home and into our pajamas, with our cats and our comfort. I called to follow up with the vet. I learned that Lucky did not make it. I became incredibly sad about the whole evening. I would not have minded spending $500 if Lucky lived, but somehow feel awful on so many levels that he died. In theory, I support being compassionate and strive to model that for my children; I thought nothing in the moment of trying to help. But now, I just feel irritable and depressed.

The Mixin' Kitchen 12 -- Supplications

2009-11-29T20:20:00.000-08:00

Supplications. At this time of Thanksgiving, a moment of reflection, and hopefully grace.

You can listen here or via itunes (just search ccmixter).

The Mixin' Kitchen 11 -- Ladies Rule!!!

2009-11-25T14:00:00.000-08:00

The ladies of ccMixter are rockin' it in this episode of The Mixin' Kitchen. While the voices of the ladies are regularly picked up and mixed up, the majority of the remixers/producers at ccMixter are men. However, lately, the ladies have been cuttin' loose and beaking out to make a strong presence as producers.

You can listen at ccMixter by clicking here or listen via itunes (just search for ccMixter).

The White Cube Remix Project

2009-11-11T07:33:00.000-08:00

I was invited with Gurdonark to spearhead a sonic installation for an art gallery in Oslo, Norway by coordinating the efforts of the ccMixter community. Gurdonark and I drafted an announcement seeking remixes of source material we created specifically for the project (my spoken word a capella and Gurdonark's ambient sample pack) and a blog where we posted additional information.

The response of the ccMixter community has me reeling. Mixters seem absolutely thrilled to be a part of this sonic installation, and the enthusiasim, the inspiration this project seems to have generated makes me giddy. The mixes so far are gorgeous. I feel like I'm in love!

The Mixin' Kitchen 10 -- Halloween in the Kitchen

2009-11-01T19:13:00.000-08:00

Ghosts and vampires, shadow and shiver
A chill in the air that makes you quiver.
Disembodied voices, tinkling keys — these are the sounds of Halloween.
So come into my kitchen, with your bag full of sweets
And lets enjoy some tricks and treats

You can listen to my latest podcast at ccMixter

or via itunes (just search ccmixter)

Jack is Fat

2009-10-26T21:44:00.000-07:00

Evening derailed by cat urgency, not quite emergency. Had to take Jack to the vet. I was there for about two hours. At least I read a good book. But now I am covered with cat hair and I am wearing a black t-shirt. I left my cell phone at home. Then Haskel, very chivalrously, visited me at the vet and brought me my phone. Just in time too. Jack was done with his treatment. The cat carrier is very large (another story) and Jack is hefty so I let Haskel take Jack with him in his car. The vet suggested putting Jack on a diet, but that is impractical as we are a three cat household, much to the chagrin of my mother-in-law who despises cats, and the dismay of many of our friends who happen to be allergic to cats. Besides, Jack's heft contributes to his charm.

My latest remix. The Colour of Blue

2009-10-15T08:19:00.000-07:00

This a song written by Narva9 (Yvonne). She offered it to me to sing. I was not satsified just doing it as an a capella to upload to ccMixter. I was compelled to do a mix. So I did. Meanwhile, rslane who I sampled on saxophone, asked if he could re-do the sax part. Jurgen Hermann also offered to re-do sax parts. Thus, this song may be updated in the near future.

The Colour of Blue by SackJo22

The Mixin' Kitchen 6 -- The Moon

2009-09-26T19:45:00.000-07:00

This episode of The Mixin' Kitchen is all about the moon.

Bed Time Stories

2009-09-12T16:18:00.000-07:00

I was out last night and did not get in until everyone else in my household had fallen asleep. This morning, as I checked in with S. about what everyone did last night, she told me that her father read her a bedtime story, just like when she was a little girl. "What did daddy read to you," I asked. "The Metamorphosis," she replied. "Kafka?," I responded. "Yes. Kafka."

The Mixin' Kitchen 5 - Red Hot Fire

2009-09-12T16:08:00.001-07:00

The latest espisode of The Mixin' Kitchen is now up. (Somehow I was remiss in not posting episode 4). As the fire raged in southern California at the time I was curating the show, I could not escape, the heat and power of fire and all that implies. Best wishes for those who were victims of the recent blazes.

You can listen via iTunes or at ccMixter.org:
http://ccmixter.org/playlist/browse/5635

Vacation

2009-08-29T18:24:00.000-07:00

Trattoria Contadina in North Beach. Nice, quiet, neighborly. White linen tablecloth, dry red wine, a waiter who smiles and the right amount of garlic. The four of us chatting amicably as we tasted everything, except for S. who was not hungry. The fog mist and fortune cookie parables leading us down the street. We were met by a friendly woman who shared her history. Inquiries at City Lights; I suggested John Irving, and Water for Elephants and the french book with hedgehog in the title, finally settling on the staff choice of the book with the illustration of the doves on the cover that left me breathless when I finished reading it, but of course, I cannot remember the title, or the author, only the feeling of having been swept away in a world of language and image that was deep and moving, and fulfilling to read.
My fortune: The Mystic Ray finds that you are sensitive, with master mind and organization powers analytical and can see both sides of a question. Keen sense of humor. Good money sense, diplomatic. . .
H. lost his keys. While he went into the hotel to see if they were found, I pulled his luggage out of the trunk of the car and started rummaging through in the hopes I might find them in a pocket somewhere. An elderly, toothless man, putting quarters in the parking meter, cheerfully started asking me a number of questions, his voice soft and accent thick so some where misunderstood: "You going now? . . .Why you go now? . . .Where you live? . . .It is hot there. . .Here it is very cold. . .You going now?"
Treated to tequila and dinner with our dearest family friends who happened to be staying down the road in Pismo. An early morning walk along the shore with S., collecting sand dollars -- one for each of us. The pelicans majestically floated above in perfect formation the grace of their flight surprising. The friendly fruit vendor who gladly packed up fruits and artichokes and beans for us, but looked as if he could easily knife us if we threatened his brother. Across the street, a building advertised a vaudeville show. The sand dunes peaked above the view point, between the houses weathered and faded. Accompanied home by hawks, soaring above the vineyards, inviting inspiration.

It was a Good Day

2009-08-16T23:14:00.000-07:00

Today was my youngest daughter's birthday. We started the day early, waking S. up so she would have sufficient time to shower, dress and practice before her band concert. She played bass. Before we left for the show, she opened her birthday gifts which included clothing, a new drum pedal, a cow bell and tambourine for her drum kit, and a gift certificate to a local used cd store. We arrived at the show which was held at the Knitting Factory. It was packed. My father, brother and mother-in-law showed up to offer their support. S.'s band was surprisingly terrific, everyone playing with a high level of competence and mastery unexpected for kids their age. Despite the fact that S. did not smile the entire time she played, she claims she enjoyed herself. After the show, we all went out for brunch at a deli where we ordered way too much food so my brother took it all home with him. My husband and I dropped our girls off at the local vintage clothing store's weekly $1 parking lot store where they did a bit of scrounging. We then drove back home, checked in for a moment, and decided to go see the new Harry Potter movie which ultimately left me with the same feeling as the book did when I read it. I bought S. a new pair of boots. After the movie, we went back to my mother-in-laws to meet up with my sister-in-law and nieces, all of us walking to the local vegan Thai restaurant where we had a delicious feast in honor of S.'s birthday. Back at my mother-in-laws, we had cupcakes and ice cream. (S. requested a clown cone for her birthday.) Finally, we came home. My husband is in bed. The girls are watching a movie. I completed registration forms as my older daughter, T. has registration and orientation for school tomorrow. I listened to music. I wrote this blog post. S. came in to give me a hug and a kiss and to tell me she had a good day. It was a good day, a nice day, busy in a relaxed way sort of day, spent with the family. It was lovely.

The Mixin Kitchen 3 -- "Tell Me"

2009-08-08T18:33:00.000-07:00

The latest episode of The Mixin’ Kitchen is now up! “Tell Me” features mixes of words spoken or whispered, announcing to the world the intent of a message, the cadence and rhythm carrying the meaning, melody superfluous as the speaker sets for the images in poetry or prose. This episode includes just a handful of the hundreds of wonderful spoken word mixes in the ccMixter archive.

You can listen directly at ccMixter. org here: http://ccmixter.org/playlist/browse/5389

or subscribe to the ccMixter podcast for direct delivery here: http://ccmixter.org/view/media/playlists/podcast

Purged

2009-08-03T20:19:00.001-07:00

Post-garden party. Old friends, and older friends congregated with new. Those who were here enjoyed an abundance of food and sunshine. The cats unusually social. Children running around the house grasping cookies. Many guests never appeared due to sickness, and forgetfulness, leaving us with way too much food. My disappointment drowned during the late evening after party with the lingering few in candlelight with dry red wine amidst our laughter, reminding me how happy I am to be with those who choose to be with me.

While the day was clearly a success, every one's enjoyment of each other clear as people stayed, my desire to entertain any time soon has been purged, despite my natural inclination to host.

RIDE -- The Mixin' Kitchen 2

2009-07-29T09:01:00.000-07:00

"Ride" the latest episode of The Mixin' Kitchen, is now available through the ccMixter podcast channel. Featuring mixes that get you places! Ride, drive, bump, cars, trains and busses. Perfect for listening to when you are on your way! Just search ccMixter on iTunes if you are not already a subscriber or check it out at ccMixter's featured playlist page: http://ccmixter.org/view/media/playlists

The Dad & The Suitor: Threats of Macho Guitar Violence

2009-07-12T14:31:00.001-07:00

My elder teenage daughter, T., has been spending the summer hanging out with a co-ed group of friends, and seems to be having the time of her life. There is one young man in the bunch, D., who has been around a bit more frequently than some of the others. He plays guitar. The other day, he was serenading T. and her friend in our garden. (Originally, they were sitting in the front, but my husband, thinking that appeared unseemly in our fairly conservative neighborhood, asked that I move them inside.) D. is actually quite an accomplished guitar player, and he is seriously into classic rock, idolizing, over all others, Eric Clapton. My husband, who is a fantastic guitarist appreciates that about the boy.

Yesterday, a group of teenagers were meant to meet T. at our house to take a two mile walk to another girl's house. Only D. showed up to escort T. My husband insisted the young man come into our house to say hello, and not just have T. disappear with him. D. came in, shook my husband's hand, and D. and T. went off alone together.

After they left, my husband started huffing and puffing, formulating all kinds of nefarious fantasies of what kind of intentions this young man might have for our beautiful daughter. As he stomped around the kitchen while I was cutting watermelon, he started shaking his head and his finger. "Yep," he tries anything, my husband said, "I will challenge him to a play off and then I will wipe the floor with that boy!" "Of course," he added, "I can only do that because the kid is into Eric Clapton . . . if he was into Yngwie Malmsteen, I would be toast."

Independence Day

2009-07-04T09:51:00.000-07:00

Independence Day has a lot of meaning for me. My mother died on July 2, 1984 and her funeral was on July 4 - so that day is always a day of rememberance. As a family, we celebrated 4th of July together, often going to the beach to watch fireworks, and usually in the company of close friends. My dad would go to one of the unincorporated cities nearby where he could buy fireworks -- sparklers and poppers -- and we would set them off in the street in front of our house. As a girl with a lot of compunction, I was a bit timid as I did not want to become a poster child of the dangers of fireworks! Nevertheless, I would gamely hold my little sparkler as far in front of my body as far as I could, drawing gilttering, spark and smoke circles in the air for others to decipher before the smoke dissipated. To our delight, my dad was brave and set off the fancier fireworks in the street. All of us, including my mother, would watch from the curb, clapping our hands as the fireworks shot colorful stars into the air that fell toward the ground like broken fairies, until they disappeared into the night.

As my mother had been seriously ill for a long time, I often thought of her passing as a day of independence -- she was finally freed from her pain and suffering. After her funeral, I took all of her medications and burned them in the bar b que. I even wrote a song about it. . .although I am not sure what happened to that song. I cannot believe that this year is 25 years. She has been gone now for more than half of my life.

The Mixin' Kitchen

2009-07-01T09:04:00.001-07:00

The Mixin' Kitchen,

my new internet radio show/podcast

is now up, running and open for business!

A tasty musical feast

filled with remixes harvested from

ccMixter.org.

It's a great way to sample

all that ccMixter has to offer!

You can listen here:

http://ccmixter.org/view/media/playlists/featured

or subscribe to the podcast: http://ccmixter.org/view/media/playlists/podcast

The Nature of Life by Tami Ackerman

2009-06-28T10:58:00.000-07:00

The Nature of Life by Tami Ackerman

1.How to have a good life: Try not to suffer too much.

2. Don't pick mean friends.

Look both ways before crossing streets.

Avoid Philosophy.

Take your pillow with you on trips.

See an attorney when you act VERY greedy.

Don't run out of bubble bath.

2009-06-25T23:37:00.000-07:00

Where there is love, I'll be there.

Lovely

2009-06-22T20:19:00.000-07:00

"Lovely", in and of itself, is such a lovely word. Melodious and expressive by its combination of vowels and consonants alone. But the sentiment of "lovely" just tickles me, alluding to something delicious, delightful, touching, pretty. It is one of my favorite words. I use it liberally, peppering my speech with "lovely," as a delicate spice and an emphatic superlative. I love when men use the word "lovely." I know many women who readily release "lovely" from their lips. But when I hear it from a man, I actually feel the sensations associated with that promising sound.

Enter

2009-06-12T07:01:00.001-07:00

The door is open.

Improvisation

2009-05-30T10:21:00.001-07:00

Yes, and
Focus on your partner(s)
Commitment to the moment
Choices
Remember that you do not have to do it all yourself
Give gifts
Anger, fear, sadness, happiness
Play

These basic precepts of improv are applicable anywhere, indeed.

Bit

2009-05-22T21:34:00.000-07:00

Spring in the garden,
Dusk falls and the night blooming jasmine bursts with fragrance.
Suddenly
I want to check on the newly planted blooms and my new friends.
All is thriving in the warmth of this new season.
I watch the jays taunt in evening song and cacophany
The cats nonplussed and disinterested.
A star, or is it a planet, becomes visible as the evening sky darkens
Brightening in reflections of other stars, oh so far away.
The light continues to fade.
Noctural pests begin their scavenging
I am bit.

ccMixter.org

2009-04-19T10:17:00.000-07:00

It is official -- I am addicted to ccMixter.org, a shared music site where musicians from all over the world create colloborative pieces under the Creative Commons license. Artists upload tracks which are then available to remixers who invariably do something magical with the source material. The talent pool is vast and varied. Additionally, there is a kind community of artists who provide feedback and support. It's totally awesome. I can be found here: http://ccmixter.org/people/SackJo22 where my acapella vocal tracks are posted, along with links to remixes.

Therapy

2009-03-27T16:41:00.001-07:00

I'm thinking about going into therapy so I can unabashedly talk about myself. I have strong enough narcissistic tendencies that I would enjoy that tremendously. According to Freud, I am perfectly healthy as I work and love just fine. I do not believe I am totally neurotic. I have sufficient self-awareness to understand that in most situations, people are generally more interested in talking about themselves than talking about me; thus, I do try to refrain from unfettered "me-isms" when I'm in social situations. However, the desire to talk about myself is ever present and growing as I listen more and more to others talk about themselves. Sometimes I feel like I could burst with myself. I think the only way to satisfy this need may be to seek the services of a professional.

The Satisfaction of Completion

2009-03-01T00:34:00.001-08:00

I uploaded two new demo mixes on my myspace page -- www.myspace.com/mrsjoseph39skitchen. I get so jazzed when I make something new -- just the accomplishment of finishing a project. Quite satisfying, indeed.

The Hills

2008-07-01T07:09:00.000-07:00

The light was very clear. The sky was uninterrupted by clouds or haze or birds. It was just blue. It was sharp. The hills were soft, mohair covered swells like camels sleeping, their lumberous backs still as the air was still. The trees that lined the base of the hills, each of the many of them, were deeply green as if shadowed, but there were no shadows. The pieces of earth and sky were so perfectly matched that the distinct boundary between them was as much a connector as a separator.

What Is In a Name?

2008-05-26T20:18:00.000-07:00

All of the women in this picture share my name. I have been googling. I googled several of my old friends that I no longer keep in touch with -- just to see if I could find them. I did not find anything substantial about any of them. Then I wondered, what would my old friends find if they googled my name? They might find that I have become a well respected feminist theologian, or a neurobiologist, a taxi driver, a music teacher, a realtor, a radiologist, attorney, artist, anthropologist, political science professor at Yale. . .

Of course, I am none of these things.

Saturday Afternoon

2008-05-25T20:23:00.000-07:00

We talked about regrets and identity
over tepid cups of milky tea
satiated
this languid afternoon interrupted only by
slamming doors
the children came and the children went unconcerned
their wet hair fragrant with the first chlorinated taste of summer
with hints of jasmine lingering in the air every time the door was left ajar.
The cats snaked back into the house flopping sloppily on cool wood floors sobered by the heat that kept us indoors watching with envy as the shadows crept across the lawn.
We were deceived.
The monarchs in the bushes, the breeze in the trees
There was no comfort in the garden today – only the heat.

We have a past and a future
And are still trying to come to peace with who we are and who we thought we would be.
This is a recurrent theme extending our adolescence into middle age
Wizened questions unanswered by our mature unwillingness to make assumptions about anything – we know better than that after what we have been through and what we can now surmise
It takes so much more to be surprised
It is easier to see the changes in others than the changes in ourselves
Our temperaments unaltered by time despite experience
Choices may change but our hearts remain
the same.

That's Entertainment

2008-01-25T17:53:00.000-08:00

This past week, an article about Chelsea Clinton stumping for her mother, Hillary Clinton, was published in the Los Angeles Times entertainment section. Now, the fact that Chelsea is "finally" campaigning for her mother is not necessarily front page news -- but the entertainment section. . .Actually, perhaps all of the stories about the campaign should be published in the entertainment section.

Happy New Year

2007-12-31T11:04:00.001-08:00

I am not resolute.
I hope for the best.
I linger in the quietness until worry spurs my tightened chest.

I sit among my papers waiting for motivation to rush to me as if I were sorely missed and then, then I could attend to the sorting and the tidying that I glibly declare I shall complete.
What a treat – to start the new year clean.

David cannot wait for 2008.
It's just another year for me -- growth and more maturity.
Perhaps this year I will keep the gray.

I need not reflect.
I hope for the best.
I cherish my daughters and their lovliness.

Not at all tired, I spy a satellite, or a star it seems, in the brief visible patch of sky between
the window and the window pane, and upon that I meditate until I fall asleep.
These days, they are active, my dreams.

Today is not the head.
‘Tis merely, the turn of the calendar page and the date of my age.
I have no intentions to change.

I do not project.
I hope for the best.
I hope for the best.

Death in the Family

2007-12-28T10:32:00.000-08:00

My father in law, A. died last Sunday, December 16, 2007. This past week his wife and his children (my husband and sister-in-law) sat shiva for him. Prayers were held at the home every morning at 6:15 and every afternoon at 4:15. There was always a minyan. We had a lot of food. Too much food perhaps. The atmosphere was lively. There were 40, 50, 60 people at the house every evening reminiscing about A. My mother in law, E. veritably held court as people came to offer their condolences and share stories of the subtle, yet influential ways in which A. touched their lives.
My husband assumed the obligations of his grief respectfully and without question. He has not shaved since A.’s death and his beard is peppered and thick already, after only a week. We seem to circulate around each other as he leaves the house early to attend shul.
After ensuring there was enough food in the house for the mourners and the visitors during the week of shiva, I became ill and have not quite recovered.
My oldest daughter has been a woman through all of this. She too cooked and served food. She stayed with my mother in law to comfort her. She got up at 6:00 on the morning to make sure there was coffee for the men who came to the house to pray in the morning. Her heart is generous and kind.
My youngest daughter returned to school after a day or two. She seems fine.
A. was a strong, giving, decent, observant, caring and humble man. He was 85 years old at the time of his death. He lived a good life and died a good death – peacefully, quietly. We are going to miss him.

Sensitivity

2007-10-28T12:26:00.000-07:00

I spent three hours in the dentist chair on Friday because I was unable to become numb. I find that ironic, since I have become acutely aware of my overall numbness in general. I am content, complacent and not easily riled. I do experience acute anxiety rather frequently, but it seems to abate with regular exercise and a sensible diet. When I was young, I felt everything so deeply that I was compelled to write, paint, dance, make music -- anything to exorcise those deep feelings that were so overwhelming that my functioning was impaired by their insistence for my attention. How could I work at a normal job when the world's woes were my own? How could I bother to clean the kitchen when my elation was so prominent that I burst with energy? Of course, in my youth I suffered debilitating mood disorders that drove me to self-medication, therapy and an alternative life style. Now, I am settled, mature. I have held the same job for over seven years. I raised children. I am a homeowner and drive an older luxury car. I am tired with responsibility and not at all unhappy. I have that middle class lack of feeling that surprises me because it is so easy to live with. Nevertheless, I cannot get really numb, for which I am grateful.

What I did This Summer and Death

2007-09-29T10:02:00.000-07:00

My 85-year old father-in-law has been seriously ill; he was in and out of the hospital/rehab facility for six weeks. On July 4th, I worked 25 hours straight. I did a natural de-tox program and lost 3-1/2 inches around my waist. A stranger threw a brick at my car windshield while I was driving at 30 miles an hour down a local thoroughfare. I read several books (none of them life changing). I had my hair cut and colored. I lost touch with some friends and increased contact with others. My oldest daughter started a new high school. Last week, I went through drama at work that caused me tremendous anxiety. With great pleasure we celebrated the simcha of my youngest daughter's bat mitzvah. We are still in the midst of the Jewish high holidays, which were are observing in a relaxed manner with deep gratitude for the friends and family who are here with us.

This past Monday the 22-year old son of a colleague died. When I learned the news, the sympathy I felt for my colleague and his wife was deep, palpable. Yesterday was the funeral. At least 300 people were in attendance. (There may have been more -- I am not good at estimating crowds, but there was overflow seating in the hallway outside of the enormous chapel where the service was held.) I did not know the deceased personally, yet the consistency of the description of the deceased in the eulogies and the warmth in the overcrowded chapel made me understand the scope of loss suffered by his family and friends. I felt limited by the parameters of the relationship with my colleague because I want to offer comfort to him and his wife (in part, I suppose, to comfort myself), but I am really just on the periphery and cannot offer true solace -- who can when a tragedy like this befalls a family? All I could do was come home with renewed appreciation for my loved ones.

Pavlova

2007-06-10T08:18:00.000-07:00

I attempted to make a Pavlova. The LA Times Food Section had a feature article on Pavlovas -- crispy, gooey meringue shell filled with whipped cream and fresh, seasonal fruit. It looked so simple and delicious, I thought I would give it a try. Now, I can cook up a storm. As I am cooking, I can anticipate how my ingredients will blend, transforming into a savory delicious dish. But baking is altogether different. Baking is science. The ingredients go into the oven one way and emerge another way altogether. I have no sense of control over the outcome when I bake and have to completely rely on recipes. When cooking, I trust myself to tweak or experiment. If I do no have a particular ingredient, I can substitute with confidence. Baking however. . .well, baking gives me the willies.

Nevertheless, I thought I would try to make the Pavlova. Meringue has no fat. The non-dairy whipped cream I use is low calorie. Berries are full of antioxidants and a family favorite. How could I go wrong?

The first way I went wrong is by not having the right equipment. I notice that many dessert recipes call for an electric mixer. I do not own an electric mixer. I do have an old hand held Braun infusion mixer which I use in a pinch. (I received it as a wedding shower gift 18 years ago and it still runs.) The recipe calls for eight egg whites whipped on medium speed until peaks form, about three minutes. I whipped the egg whites. At three minutes, the egg whites were slightly foamy and still very liquid. I whipped some more. The eggs whites became frothy. I continued whipping. The eggs whites eventually became somewhat solid, creating a soft mound more than peaks. I was sick of whipping and decided to move on.

The recipe next called for 2-1/2 cups of superfine sugar, gradually blended with a whisk. I had the sugar and I had a whisk. As I added the sugar, I thought it seemed like an awfully lot of sugar. However, because baking is a science, I felt compelled to follow the recipe exactly, and against my better judgment blended all of the sugar into the egg whites. The egg whites became a dense, opaque creamy color. The foam and whatever peaks may have existed within the foam disappeared as the mixture began to resemble batter.

I added the corn starch, vinegar and vanilla called for the in the recipe. I had definite concerns that the gooey mass in my mixing bowl was not right. But I followed the recipe.

I was supposed to make a circle on parchment paper placed on a cookie sheet, place the meringue on the sheet and bake it. My mixture was too liquid to put on a cookie sheet, so I poured it into a pie pan.

Because I was uncertain about my meringue, I thought I would try again. So I mixed up another batch, again carefully following the recipe. The second batch was very similar to the first batch despite my efforts to whip the egg white a little longer. I placed the second batch on the paper covered cookie sheet as described in the recipe. It did not lay in a pile as suggested by the recipe. Rather, it spread across the cookie sheet as if I was making cooking bars. It was all an experiment, so I let it go.

I baked the meringues as directed.

When it came time to assemble the Pavlova, I discovered the meringue in the pie pan did not cook all the way. While there was the white, crisp meringue crust at the top, underneath was uncooked egg white syrup. Yuck! The meringue on the cookie sheet was thoroughly cooked, so much so that the the paper cooked right into the meringue.

I was able to salvage some of the meringue from the cookie sheet. I lined a bowl with pieces of paperless meringue I manage to break off the large sheet of meringue that filled the cookie sheet, and I topped it the with whipped cream and fruit. It was delicious -- despite the meringue being a bit too sweet. My family decided we would have been just as happy with simple fruit and cream.

mrsjoseph39skitchen.myspace.com

2007-06-07T21:08:00.000-07:00

Since I'm in the process of coming out of retirement, I felt it was important to start a myspace page where I could do my music thing like millions of other musicians. I had a regular myspace account so I could comment on M.'s myspace page. But to upload songs, I needed to start a new account as a musician. When I was signing on as a musician, I was prompted to name my URL. I typed in "mrsjoseph'skitchen." Unfortunately, myspace interpreted my URL name as "mrsjoseph39skitchen." How is anybody going to find me as "mrsjoseph39skitchen"?

Kind of like my imperfect kitchen -- I now have an imperfect URL.

Joshua Tree

2007-06-05T19:30:00.001-07:00

I chaperoned my daughter's sixth grade class trip to Joshua Tree National Park. We camped in the desert.

The highlight of the trip was the boulder pile. The geography of Joshua Tree is characterized by giant rock ridges that look as if boulders were dropped from the sky to create mountains of stone that line the desert floor. The rocks are rust colored and contrast sharply with the clear blue sky.

We climbed the boulder pile from within, starting at the bottom and making our way through the various passages and rooms created in the spaces between the boulders to the top where emerged high above the desert floor. Some passages were merely the small space between the bottom of an enormous rock and the ground below it. I snaked through on my side, pushing and pulling my body with my feet, my hands, my abdominal muscles. Narrow passages would open up to "rooms" where a shaft of sunlight entering through a high gap in the boulders above illuminated the quartz crystals in the surrounding rock so that the space gently sparkled. It took every bit of my strength and flexibility to pull my way out of rooms that had no obvious exit. More than once, I leveraged my rear against one rock, my feet stretched out to a rock in front of me, and my arms outstretched to rocks next to me, so I could perform a crab-like backward scoot up the rock until I could make it up and over the rock in front of me.

Every single girl on the trip made it all the way through the boulder pile. I was so proud of the girls who worked together to overcome claustrophobia, fear of falling, self-doubt and spider webs to help each other through the course. I was also proud of myself for making it all the way through. I was not afraid, but there were moments that I was concerned about my physical ability to do the climb. (I was particularly concerned that my big fat rear end would not fit through some of the narrow passages we had to make our way through.) I joke with Tony the trainer about being the strongest middle aged mother of two in the Valley. But I don't think it's a joke. . .I really am strong. This opportunity to successfully test my strength made this one of my life's most profound experiences. I can't wait for my next wilderness adventure!

kindofpopfolkadultcontemporaryjazzcountryalternativewhatever

2007-05-27T20:46:00.000-07:00

Someone is going to ask me, "what kind of music do you write," and I'm going to say, "I dunnno. . . .kindofpopfolkadultcontemporaryjazzcountryalternativewhatever."

Much to the dismay of my family, I have been working diligently with the recording unit. I basically have locked myself in the garage/office/studio where we keep the equipment. I yell with exasperation at anybody who opens the door, particularly if I am recording a vocal track. (There are many deleted tracks with a soaring vocal interrupted by the sound of the door opening or the phone ringing or the neighbor's gardener mowing the lawn). I do not have monitors yet so my ears are slightly red and swollen from wearing headphones for hours at a time.

I usually write on acoustic guitar but as I record the songs, they evolve into something altogether different as I negotiate any sonic possibility within my limited instrumental skills. While I can sing, my guitar/keyboard/drum machine skills are very basic. Nevertheless, I am so excited to listen to the rough CDs I have been burning off the unit. My kids can't believe it. "You like listening to yourself," they ask incredulously?

Despite my enthusiasm, I still have a lot to learn. What I really need is a producer. Someone who is comfortable with a middle aged soprano who writes songs that are kindofpopfolkadultcontemporaryjazzcountryalternativewhatever.

I'm Considering Coming Out of Retirement

2007-05-17T11:14:00.000-07:00

After 15 years of not writing or thinking about having my own band, I am seriously considering coming out of retirement. When I became pregnant 15 years ago, I was a struggling artist scraping by to pay for demo recordings and performing in the middle of the week at dive nightclubs in Hollywood to a roaring crowd of three. Once I had my baby, I was so devoted to her that I was disinclined to spend time away from her. I still had to work a day job to earn money; the rest of my time was devoted to her. As my family grew, music as a vocation or even an avocation grew farther and farther away as a possibility.

Not to mention the fact that the demands of my life sapped me of any real inspiration. I no longer had the emotional impetus of infatuation or heartbreak, being happily married and the mother of two beautiful daughters. Once I became a mother, I pretty much stopped being depressed. I also stopped imbibing in inspirational substances. I became pragmatic, exhausted and focused on providing for my family financially and emotionally. That took its toll on me as an artist.

Now my kids are big. I have a job where overtime work is not permitted. I am strong, healthy, energetic. And I have become inspired.

It started when my dear, dear M. sent me some lyrics she wrote and challenged me to put them to music. Instantly, I wrote music, tweaked some lyrics, and turned them into songs that I really, really like. Even my husband, who is extremely discerning musically, like them.

M.'s gesture was a gift. She really helped get me going. Since then, I have been writing regularly. I have enough songs for a set now. I purchased a multitrack digital recording unit and am in the process of learning how to operate it so I can demo the songs. I even started horning in on my daughter's voice lessons. (On days she cannot go for some reason or other, I take her lesson).

. . .to be continued. . .

In God We Trust

2007-04-22T08:08:00.000-07:00

We were at A.'s house for lunch. Several people were sitting around the table after the meal having vigorous discussions. At my end of the table, K. brought up the issue of God's involvement in our lives. She does not believe God micromanages our lives. If someone gets cancer, for example, she does not believe that is necessarily God's doing. How could God allow for the Holocaust? She could not understand how tragedy could be intentional or part of some greater plan. She could not reconcile tragedy with God's ultimate benevolance. She had not really thought about how tragedy in the bible is often explained as being the will of God and shown to serve some higher purpose. This idea caused her to think a moment about her thesis, but did not give her much comfort about God's involvement in the world.

R. disagreed wholeheartedly with K. She believes God is present in her life in an initimate way. She knows this, she explains, because every single day she finds at least one penny. When she picks up the penny, it always says "In God We Trust."

The Bobcat

2007-02-27T19:41:00.000-08:00

This weekend I went up to Castaic to practice with G. & S. who graciously invited me to sing with their band at an upcoming show. G. & S. live on a former Clydesdale ranch at the end of a dirt road in the hills of Castaic. The landscape was California chaparral with small shrubs, patches of wild grass, and ragged, crooked trees. The hills remained brown despite some recent rain showers.

While M. has been friends with G. & S. for 10 years, I am just now getting to know them. They seem to be solid, down to earth people imbued with creativity and generous, positive spirits.

After singing together, we sat in the living room of the ranch house. The room had a large plate glass window overlooking the yard. G. & S. leave a children's pool in the yard that is visible from the living room. They keep it filled with water for the wildlife that frequents their property.

While we were talking, their beautiful cat, Cesar, came into the room. Cesar has unusual markings and big blue eyes. Apparently, he is generally slow to warm up, but for some reason, Cesar like me. He jumped into my lap, pushed his head into my hand and insisted on getting my attention. G. & S. were surprised. "He never does that to anybody," they both told me.

As I stroked Cesar, S. described the myriad of wildlife that they have seen since they moved in: deers and fawns, condors, ground squirrels, rattlesnakes, coyotes. She said they have even seen a couple of bobcats that come down from the hills, but they do not see the bobcats as frequently as some of the other animals.

Almost mid-sentence while she was describing the bobcats that come to their house, she interrupted herself, exclaiming, "NO WAY!!! -- look out the window."

Her exclamation caused Cesar to jump out of my arms. G. and I got up from where we were sitting and approached the window. There was a bobcat drinking out of the pool.

Just Living Life

2007-01-28T09:15:00.000-08:00

While at the downtown courthouse where I was working on a trial, I ran into a woman, S.S., who I knew when I was seven years old. She is now a high powered, high profile attorney. I am just the paralegal.

(Ironically, M. mentioned to me that she recently called S.S. regarding a legal matter. I actually had no recollection that M. knew S.S. and still cannot recall how M. knows S.S. -- but my selective memory will probably become the subject of a future post.)

I saw S.S. walk into the court cafeteria and recognized her immediately even though I have not seen her for close to 40 years. She is an exquisite looking middle aged woman who looks younger than she is. She was wearing a beautiful overcoat over her expensive suit. Her hair was pulled back. Her features are well defined. She has a big smile. She was wearing big diamond stud earrings and shiny black patent leather high-heel shoes. I waited until I overheard her name mentioned, and then I introduced myself.

"Are you S.S.," I asked.

"Yes," she replied firmly, and not at all quizzically. Being a high powered, high profile attorney I assume she is accustomed to being recognized in public places.

"I am S.A.," I said.

She dropped the purse she was carrying. Her mouth opened in astonishment. She doubled over with surprise and disbelief, sort of swaying as she repeated, "No way. Get out of here. . ."

"You look just the same," she told me.

We chatted briefly and then returned to our respective colleagues.

A couple of days later, I googled her. I read about her career, her achievements. I saw that she I were at both at UCLA, English Department for our undergraduate work. I do not remember seeing her there at all, but imagine we were there at the same time (again, my selective memory which shall be the subject of a future post).

I felt sad because at this point in my life it is hard to imagine that I will have any meaningful career achievements. I have been a dilettante, trying too many things to become an expert at any of them. My interests have not been mere dabbles -- but my lack of fortitude prevented me from really excelling. It seems like every 10 years or so, I switched gears. In my 20's, I passionately pursued creative interests with deep dedication and focus. I was prolific -- writing, singing, dancing, painting. In my 30's, once I started having children, I studied and started practicing as a clinical intern (marriage and family therapy). Just prior to turning 40, financial burdens forced me to switch gears (I was not making any money as an intern), and I found myself working for my current employer where I learned to be a paralegal.

I am just living my life. Like so many others, I am just living my life.

The Equivocal Love

2007-01-13T21:27:00.000-08:00

I asked my husband if he would marry me if he met me now. With an equivocal tone he responded, "possibly."

The Memorial Service

2007-01-06T20:46:00.000-08:00

Today was the memorial service for R. I was not planning on attending because it is Saturday. I do not drive on Saturday because I observe Shabbat. I felt conflicted about not being able to attend because I was friends with R., but more importantly because I knew that M. needed support. Nevertheless, I told M. I would not be able to attend. As I told her, my heart was in my chest because I knew it would hurt her. I also felt residual guilt because I missed her father’s funeral so many, many years ago. When M.’s father died, I was out of town and unreachable (this was before cell phones and constant access to anyone at anytime). By the time I returned home, the funeral had occurred. This has been a sore spot in our friendship – even though I had no way of knowing that he died and certainly would have been with her had I known. This was an opportunity to repair, in some small way, that particular rift. I told her I would go.

M. came to pick me up. B. was with her. I have not seen B. for at least 15 years.
B. was a close friend of R. and M.’s and was part of the circle of friends that spent time together. When we were in college in the early 1980's, there were groups of us whose relationships overlapped and touched each other starting with the core of M., S. and I. Our boyfriends, bandmates and other friends were brought together by the various parties, shows and other events at which we all congregated.

The memorial service was held on a cliff at Point Dume. M. asked me to drive her car. She quietly and intermittently cried during the ride. It was a beautiful day today – clear, warmer, pure. We ran into C. and G. in the parking lot and walked together to the deck overlooking the ocean where the service was to be held. While not terribly rigorous, the walk was about 1/3 of a mile uphill. G. has become quite frail (she is going to be 74 years old this year) and had to slowly ascend to the site. Our slow pace allowed us to appreciate the pelicans that majestically soared above us.

Several people spoke about R. B. commented on R.’s philosophical nature drawing on references to Nietzsche. He described R. as being "cultured," defining "cultured" as one who seeks to experience life fully, directly and with integrity versus a "philistine" who is only interested in immediate satisfaction. R. commented that his talks with R. always inspired him to live a more "cultured" life. I felt that way after just hearing B. talk about R.

One of R.’s brothers articulated the anger and hurt survivors of suicide feel. "You life was not yours to take away," he lamented. Everyone agreed that although R. was well loved, he did not know that he was well loved.

After the service, we went to a local restaurant where everyone drank and ate until quite late in the afternoon. I did not know R.’s family but clearly the four brothers, their significant others and children were hurt and angered by R.’s suicide. I thought they appeared close and loving, and it was not until later this evening that B. revealed to me that there are numerous dynamic rifts in the family – alliances and chasms – that were not apparent today.

I drove home because both M. and B. drank fairly heavily during the afternoon. On the way home, the three of us reminisced about our lives in the 1980's. We agreed that was a splendid time for us – perhaps the best time of our life when everything was exciting to us and subject to deep discussion. Our best memories of R. are from that time and his unexpected death gave us an opportunity to revisit that period. Our sense of loss exasperated by his death and the distance we have traveled from our youth.

Evite

2007-01-01T19:14:00.000-08:00

We hosted a new year's eve party. Since we hosted a new year's eve party last year, it seems that we may be starting a precedent. I was not intending to host a party, but at least two of my friends asked if we were going to host a party this year -- so we did.

I'm always happy to entertain. My parties are usually quite nice. But, despite all my experience throwing parties, I always get anxious that no one is going to come.

For this party, I sent out invitations via Evite. Evite is an electronic e-mail invitiation service that sends out invitiations, tracks responses, and even lets you send out photos of the event to all the guests. One of the features of evite is the rsvp page which shows who has rsvp'd to the event and any comments they may leave. We invited over 25 couples, but only a handful rsvp'd through Evite. Of that handful, only three rsvp'd that they were coming. There were at least five people who posted on Evite that they would not be coming. Two were undecided. This really disturbed me. I know that I certainly would think twice about going to a party where only three people said they were coming but more than that said they were not. What good is a party without guests? I knew in reality that more than three people were coming to the party because I spoke to them directly -- but the other guests responding on Evite did not have this information. I became anxious -- what if the guests who had not yet responded saw the rsvp list and thought going to this lame party would be a waste of time?

Of course, if the guests did not respond on Evite they would not see that only three people said they were coming and all of this concern is really for naught.

P.S. The party turned out lovely, with a houseful of friends eating, drinking, visiting, playing music and bringing in the new year together.

Not Such a Good Night

2006-12-19T08:11:00.000-08:00

Last night I found out that R. committed suicide. He was M.'s boyfriend when we were at UCLA. M. is one of my best friends, and has been for over 30 years. I have not seen R. for many, many years and only heard about him occasionally from M. He moved out of state to teach history at the college level. He was an intellectual bad boy with a lot of charm, charisma and sufficient hipness factor to win us over when we were at university. He rode a motorcycle. He rolled his own cigarettes. He read German history in German. For several years I wore one of his leather jackets until he eventually reclaimed it. I painted his portrait.

* * *

Also at about 10:00 last night, my younger daughter burned her upper lip/nose. She was roasting marshmallows in the fireplace. While holding a particularly seared marshmallow on its long metal skewer, it slipped off the tip of the skewer onto her face. While she was in a lot of pain, the burn itself did not look too bad. As per the first aid instructions I googled, she kept a cold compress on the burn and took some pain relief medication. While she was very uncomfortable, I was confident she would be alright.

At about 11:00 my husband came home after being at the gym, and then the supermarket. He panicked when he saw my daughter's face which during the hour became redder and slightly blistery. We decided to take her to the emergency room. Fortunately, the closest hospital specializes in burn treatment. Because it is a small hospital, we not have to wait to long for treatment. We were reassured by the burn specialist who told us the burn was superficial and she would probably have no scarring.

The Roches

2006-12-11T19:50:00.000-08:00

The Roches are one of my most significant musical influences. They are my heroes! The trio of sweetly singing sisters has been a part of my life since 1979 when my mother first turned me on to them. Singing along to their intricate harmonies (I always sing Terre's parts) is how I learned to sing and to harmonize. The intelligent, humorous and sometimes whimsical lyrics of their songs became one of the standards I held myself up to as I wrote songs. If you look at item 86 on my list of 100 things, you will see that The Roches are one of my desert island artists. I sang their song, "Hammond," to my children for years as a lullaby. I have covered three of their songs in various bands I have played in ("Pretty and High," "Mary" and "Mr. Sellack"). I have not become bored of their music in any way whatsoever. I do not even know if I have the ability to express what a devout, dedicated, admiring fan I am.

This past week the Roches played locally. They rarely play in my city. Months ago, I saw that they would be playing. I did not buy tickets because the show was advertised as a holiday show and I did not know if I wanted to see even the Roches singing Christmas carols for the evening. My husband, however, knowing the fan I am, surprised me by getting tickets for the show.

I was so glad that he did! The show was fantastic and it was not Christmas carol laden as I was afraid it would be.

At the end of the show, The Roches invited audience members on stage with them to sing (a Christmas carol actually). I rushed the stage, hurrying as fast as my middle aged ass would go, down from the balcony, to the stage door, where I was the last audience member to make it up there before they closed the stage door. They sang "Silver Bells," which I do not really know, but I faked it anyway "ooing" and "aahing" along in harmony. I could not believe there I was on stage with my idols! What a thrill!

Afterward, I had an opportunity to speak with them. First I told Terre what a huge influence their music had on me. After I told her I sang "Hammond" to my kids as a lullaby for years, she said, "Let me give you a hug," as she appeared generally touched by my devotion. I told Suzzy too. She also gave me hug. I also told Maggie. Maggie did not give me a hug, but she looked at me very sweetly and ever so prettily.

My Father's Wife

2006-11-24T08:37:00.000-08:00

My mother died on July 2, 1984 after a protracted illness. I graduated from UCLA two days before she died. I turned 23 years old two weeks after she died. My mother was 43 years old when she died.

Within weeks after my mother's death, my father started bringing women home. At the time, I was living in his house, having moved back during the last few months of my mother's life. My father's room was right next to my room. I could hear him having sex with these women while sobbing about my mother. One night, I could not take it any more and I chased the woman out of the house.

In the autumn of 1984, my father met S. in the waiting room of his psychologist's office. She was also a patient. They started dating. She started spending more and more time at our house. She would leave her young children at our house while she went out with my father. I remember seeing her little girl, who was 5 years old at the time, sitting sadly in my father's bed room watching tv and having no idea where her mother was.

She was a born again Christian and would not sleep with my father unless they were married. By May 1985, they planned on getting married. My brother and I were appalled. This woman was nothing like my mother who was intelligent, emotionally sophisticated, Jewish. At the time, all we could think about was what a horrible lack of respect to our mother, to us. We felt betrayed and abandoned by our father. My father just could not tolerate being alone. He needed a woman to take care of him.

I was told I had to move out of the house. I was not emotionally or financially prepared to move, but I had little choice. I felt like the princess in the fairy tale who was forced to leave the castle when the wicked step-mother took up residence.

In July 1985, the same week that my mother's grave was unveiled, my father married S. I did not speak to him for years thereafter.

When I became pregnant with my first daughter, it was important to me to repair my relationship with my father for the sake of my child. My father agreed to go to family counseling together. We had sessions alone, with my husband, my brother, S. and her children. Without getting defensive, he was able to listen to how his actions hurt me. My father's ability to tolerate my anger was tremendously healing. I developed a great respect for him after that experience.

We worked out a plan -- every Sunday, while S. was at church, my father would meet us for brunch. (We did this for many, many years until the kids became older and started having sports and music lessons on Sunday mornings.)

While I did not have any love for S., I endured her at family functions. I could never look her in the eye however, because the sight of her upset me so much.

Several years ago, S. was diagnosed with Huntington's disease. Ironically, my father again found himself in the position of caretaker for his wife. S.'s condition steadily deteriorated. About 18 months ago, she fell and broke her back. She has not been home since as her care requires more than my father can handle on his own.

Throughout her illness, S. has been positive, uncomplaining -- rather inspirational actually. Despite her disability, she attended family functions. She could hardly walk, but she had her hair and nails done regularly. Until she became totally debilitated, my father took her to the beach or to the movies, to church. We all recognized that her belief in Jesus was fundamental to her positive spirit and were grateful that she had religion.

I still did not have any love for her.

My father and S. come to my house every Thanksgiving. I also invite my S.'s children. She has two sons (one of which is married with two babies) and a daughter. This year, her daughter asked if she could bring S. "Of course," I said. So the daughter and her friend brought S. in her wheelchair from the nursing facility.

Everyone who was here for Thanksgiving thought S. looked good. I thought she looked terrible -- frail, bent, her hair grey. Even though I still do not have any love for her, her frailty touched me -- having a sense of my father's hardship saddened me. Seeing S. made me cry.

Pre-Thanksgiving

2006-11-22T22:56:00.000-08:00

I have hosted Thanksgiving dinner for my family for close to 20 years. My parents used to host Thanksgiving. Our home was open and filled mostly with friends -- their friends, our friends, friends of friends. Food was plentiful, as were various substances with which to imbibe. Music was always playing. People were always laughing. The house was warm, inviting and full of life. I hope I've maintained that tradition.

Many of our friends who regularly join us are unable to come this year due to illness or travel or other familiy commitments. That makes me rather sad. Even so, we will be at least 20 around the table.

This year's menu consists of:

Roast turkey
Tandoori style turkey breast
Simple stuffing with celery and onions
Stuffing with carrots, dried cranberries and pecans
Sweet potatoes (either roasted or sauteed with mustard seeds and warm spices)
Mashed potatoes
Sauteed Brussels sprouts with fennel, shallots and walnuts
Roasted beets
Roasted asparagus
Pureed cauliflower and carrots
Steamed green beans
Carrots (not sure yet how I will cook them)
Balsamic glazed squash with pine nuts
Port glazed onions
Green salad
Spinach Bhajee
Traditional pumpkin pie
Coconut pumpkin pie
Low-carb, gluten free pumpkin pie
Apple pie
Pecan pie
Pear pie with glazed ginger and figs
Chocolate chip pie
Mandel Brot

I think that's enough.

2006-11-20T20:21:00.000-08:00

I have good intentions, and secrets too secret to mention

gathering dust

because I lost the references.

Lost

2006-11-18T22:28:00.000-08:00

I am not a big tv watcher. We have two televisions in our household of four. Up until a year ago, we had only one small television we kept in our bedroom. We do not have cable so we need to use a rabbit-ear antennae to get any reception. Even with the antennae, we do not get channel two. Because my husband and I could no longer stand to have the kids in our room when they wanted to watch their television programs which we could not stand, we finally relented and bought a small television for one of our kids. I watch the morning news on a daily basis to catch the traffic and weather reports. While I sporadically follow a series, I do not do so regularly, except for "Lost."

I love "Lost." On Wednesdays, I organize my day around "Lost." I do not schedule any activity for Wednesday evening, for myself or my children. I make sure dinner is cooked, consumed and cleaned up well before the 9:00 starting time. I prefer to watch "Lost" in bed after changing into my night clothes, brushing my teeth and washing my face.

I do not accept phone calls while watching "Lost." One night when "Lost" was on, the phone rang. My kid, knowing I won't pick up the phone, answered the call which was from one of my dear friends, who apparently was not yet attuned to my devotion to "Lost." My kid said, "You'll have to talk to her later, when "Lost" is over." When I called my friend back, she said "At least you admit it."

"Admit what," I asked.
"Watching Lost."
"Yeah, so what," I replied.
"Well aren't you embarrassed."
"Why should I be embarrassed. It's a really good show -- intelligent, suspenseful with good plot and characters."
"It's not a reality show?" she asked.

I spend an inordinate of time perusing "Lost" blogs. My favorite is darkufo.blogspot.com which is an attractive, comprehensive and accessible blog. I also recently discovered lostopedia.com which summarizes the story of each character, a feature I particularly appreciate.

As far as I'm concerned, "Lost" is the pinnacle of hump day.

One Of The Stones In My Foundation Of Guilt

2006-11-12T09:09:00.000-08:00

When I was about four years old my mother got into a car accident and I thought it was my fault. At that time we lived in Fountain Valley which is in Orange County, south of Los Angeles. In the early 1960's Fountain Valley was a sprawling developing land of contained townhomes and track houses. We lived in a small house that had no living grass that I could recall. There was a metal swing set in the backyard. I hated going into the backyard because the dirt was hard, the grass was dry and there were gopher holes every where. I did not know that a gopher was just a small rodent. To me a gopher was a monster that lived under the ground and made the swing set a dangerous place so I rarely went into the backyard.

I went to nursery school which I don’t really remember too well. My mother told me that I loved nursery school and that the teachers loved me. I was a charming little girl with big round deep brown eyes, an easy smile. I was bright, learning easily and participating readily in any activity that presented itself to me. I was a good girl too. I did not make many demands, I listened to the adults and did what I was told to do. I still have my nursery school diploma pasted in my baby book. I always did well in school – even nursery school, I guess.

The day of the accident, my mother brought me a gift when she picked me up from nursery school. She brought me a porcelain figurine. The figurine had a little booklet attached that explained who she was. We were driving home in my mother’s pale blue station wagon. I was sitting in the front seat next to my mother. I asked her to read to me what the booklet said. She read to me as she drove. We approached a cross-walk where a woman was crossing the street. My mother somehow noticed the woman, even though she was reading to me, and she hit the brakes but there was not enough time for the car to stop before it struck the woman. The woman made it to the sidewalk where she sat on the corner crying, a rag wrapped around her bleeding ankle. My mother was shaking. I was shaking. We later learned the woman was a nurse and she was okay.

For years I thought the accident was my fault because my mother was reading to me as she drove. It was not until I was an adult that I learned that the brakes went out on the car and that it was the car did not stop. By then however, guilt was the foundation upon which my personality was formed and the knowledge didn’t really help to absolve me.

Life's Bottom Line

2006-11-05T11:39:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty sure I have body dysmorphic disorder. I have no idea what I really look like. There is a huge disconnect between what I see when I look at myself in the mirror and what I see when I look at myself in photographs. The truth is, I am not particularly photogenic. Even my friends tell me, "Oh, you look much better in real life." I am not ugly. I am just disconnected. Always have been.

I am fortunate that my husband thinks I am an attractive, sexy woman. But I do not really think of myself as a sexy woman. I think I can muster enough style and poise to get away with attractive. . .but sexy? Sexy is the purview of the thin, the bare, the confident. What does it take to feel sexy -- particularly if you are fat? What does it take to be sexy -- I mean really "be" sexy, not just act sexy? As I developed into a woman, being "sexy" was such a mandate. The media, populated with images of "sexy" looking women gave no real direction about what it mean to "be" sexy. And what is so important about being sexy anyway? It all comes down to being loved.

We all just want to be loved. Post 1960's "sexy" = "lovable." What a superficial analysis. But that's it really -- to be connected, to be loved. It's life's bottom line.

Sick

2006-11-03T16:28:00.001-08:00

I have been sick all week and will post properly upon recovery.

Liar

2006-10-27T18:03:00.000-07:00

I found out, in a surreptitious way, that my teenager is lying to me. Because my method of discovery is surreptitious, I cannot tell her I know that she is lying to me. The thing she lied about is not a major thing in and of itself -- but the fact that she lied to me is very disturbing. Furthermore, when I tried talking to her about the subject about which she lied, she continued to lie to me even though I gave her ample opportunity to tell me the truth.

Most people do not think there is anything unusual about a teenager lying to a parent. While that is not acceptable behavior or expected behavior(especially for certain prize teenagers), it is not unsurprising that a teenager will lie to his or her parent. By temperament, my teenager is reticent, withholding and not terribly articulate. She does not like talking to me when she is eating even though meal time is one of the few times we are together as a family. She does not like talking to me on the phone when I check in with her at the end of the school day. She does not even seem to like talking much to me when I go in her room, sit on her bed, and chat with her. She is a shut-down master. As a result, I have little true knowledge of what is going on in her life.

I do know that my teenager is in a safe school/social environment and believe she is not engaging in dangerous or excessive behaviors (certainly not the kind of behaviors I was engaged in when I was her age). I also recognize her need to individuate and all that entails. Nevertheless, knowing that she lied to my face is an alarm I need to listen to. I'm just not sure how to respond.

Cheating

2006-10-26T19:17:00.000-07:00

I discovered an entertaining way bloggers can cheat on content development: www.blogthings.com. It gives you all kinds answers to hypotheticals that are meant to describe your character. The past life generator turned me into a diseased belly dancer who lived in New Zealand and died by decapitation. At first blush, I thought this was just random. Then it dawned on me -- I am indeed a belly dancer who longs to go to New Zealand and who is very, very attached to my head. Provocative.

I cannot count how many times my friends and I discuss what we will cook for dinner while we are in the the middle of eating lunch.

2006-10-19T21:37:00.000-07:00

I love food. It is not that I just like to eat, which I do, but it is more about loving food -- the idea of food, the preparation of food, the feeding of others, thinking about food, talking about food, reading about food. Food as an art form. Cooking as a challenge.

Considering the obesity rates in the U.S. it looks like food is a weapon of mass destruction in this country.

Contrary to the foregoing, my whole life is not centered around food. While I am a creative home cook, by no means am I a gourmet cook with fancy techniques. I peruse cookbooks, but only rarely make recipes from them, preferring to create my own version of whatever has been tested and published. Because I keep kosher, there are many foods I do not touch. I do not even eat out all the much, and when I do, I tend to go to the same restaurants and order the same dish.

I hate eating out alone. That seems to run in my family as my father hates eating alone too. It makes me so sad to see other people eating alone, especially if the person is fat or cranky looking or old or so tuned into the food that s/he is oblivious to the surroundings.

I do love the social aspect of dining. I so look forward to mealtime when I am with a friend at lunch or hosting 25 people for Thanksgiving dinner. As noted in prior posts, cooking for others is one of my all-time favorite activities. Here are 10 of my favorite foods:

Cutta (sweet and sour beet soup)
Asparagus roasted with olive oil and kosher salt
Chicken roasted with lemon and garlic
Coconut Curry
Cesar Salad
Grilled Salmon
Ice cream
Chai tea
Pureed cauliflower
Pie

You are welcome to let me know what some of your favorite foods are.

The Upcoming Reunion

2006-10-15T10:42:00.000-07:00

I attended an alternative school during my junior high school years (7th to 9th). The school was a cutting edge experiment in 1973 when it first opened and I was one of the first set of students to attend the school. It had classes for kids from kindergarten to 12th grade. It was based on a humanistic model, where homeroom was called "family" and every week there were group sessions to discuss just about anything. Instead of P.E. we went hiking. The openness and experimental nature of the school fostered creativity in its students.

This year, the school is having its first reunion.

When I first heard about the reunion, I was excited. I had some dear, dear friends back then who I have lost touch with and am interested in knowing more about. What are they like as adults? Are they married? What kind of work do they do? Are they still the type of people I would like to be friends with?

Then I started thinking about my life when I was in junior high. Ages 12 - 14 are not really the best year's in anybody's life, and certainly not mine. I get queasy when I think about the things I did when I was that age -- things that would make me die if my children did them! I put myself in situations where I compromised my integrity, experimented dangerously and acted in ways that were just plain stupid. Now I'm not so sure I want to see the people I did these things with -- first drug experiences, first sexual experiences. The social mechanics of the young teenager are not pretty and certainly were not pretty in the permissive atmosphere of the early 1970's. Some of my most benign memories of that time:

Listening to David Bowie's "Space Oddity" with Rachel
Dumping a dead snake in a back alley in Hollywood with Jenny Belleu after she stole her mother's car (we were 14 years old and found the snake during one of our school hiking trips)
Going to Disneyland with Marina, Kevin, Michael, Dimitri and Gary
Being Dorothy in the "Wizard of Oz"
Getting mugged in the neighborhood park with Danny and some other kids
Seeing a giant potato bug in the "Garden"
The smell of school lunch
Going to the radio studio to catch a glimpse of Dr. Demento
Hanging out at the La Brea Tar Pits when the park was filled with street performers, hippies and LA County Museum entrance was free
Window shopping at Sadie

But the painful memories reside like a stone in my heart. Some of it is the normal angst of adolescence that comes with the negotiation of relationships. But I also did things that made me feel anxious and guilty because I knew then that what I was doing was wrong. My parents were permissive. They trusted me because I was smart and nice. But I did things I did not want them to know about, especially things around my sexual discovery. I put myself in situations that were not conducive to developing healthy self-esteem in a young lady. I still feel very sad when I think about it.

My Earliest Memory

2006-10-10T20:37:00.000-07:00

I was around two or maybe three years old. I was outside with other children who were bigger than I was. I was wearing a new two-piece bathing suit. I was very proud of my new two-piece bathing suit. I felt like a big girl in my new two-piece bathing suit. One of the bigger kids told me that the bottom was on inside-out. Right away, standing outside on the sidewalk, I took of the bottom, turned it right side out and put it back on. The other children laughed at me because my bottom was bare for that moment. I felt a brief sense of shame.

2006-10-10T20:15:00.000-07:00

My inner voice is low and not making itself heard.

Sukkot

2006-10-08T19:13:00.000-07:00

This weeked was Sukkot. Generally, I have to work on Sukkot. While I am able to take time off for Rosh Hoshana, Yom Kippur and Passover, I usually cannot get the time off work for Sukkot. This year, however, since Sukkot fell on the weekend, I was able to be here. This meant I cooked.

And I cooked. And I cooked.

I was so pleased to be home for the holiday that I invited guests on Friday night. I invited guests for Saturday lunch. I invited guests for Sunday lunch. There were at least 12 of us at each meal.

And I was so pleased to cook for all of them.

I made cutta (sweet-sour beet soup), beef curry, lemon garlic chicken, spiced cauliflower, eggplant with basil, green bean bajee, rice, hashua, shufta, green salad, egg salad, baked eggs, cauliflower en croute, salmon with herbs de provence, tuna salad, autumn salad, greek salad. My daughter made lasagna. I served humuus, and challah, seven layer cake, checker board cake, apple pie, medjool dates, cashew crisps, rugalah, cookies, grapes and almonds. We went through several bottles of wine, and Pelligrino, soda, coffee, black tea, mint tea.

Every body ate. We laughed a lot. We had fresh flowers in the sukkah. In the garden there were hummingbirds, and butterflies the size of tea saucers fluttering among the purple sage blossoms.

What a blessing to feed my friends!

Listening to Dreams

2006-10-01T09:09:00.000-07:00

In Selene's dream, all the action is slo-mo
She jumps and she's flying out of reach
In Selene's dream

The dreams of other people are usually not that interesting to listen to. Yet people want to share their dreams -- the dream experience sometimes being so real, so profound, so moving that telling the dream can dispel or cement that experience.

When recounting dreams, people tend to tell them in a monotonous, droning voice that makes my mind wander. Not only do my children share their dreams with me, but my friends do so, or at least they used to when we were in school together, in those days when our contact was regular, daily. Now my primary contact with my friends is on the telephone. All of us with our jobs and our families, we're no less committed to each other than I was with my daily school friends, it's just that we are all grown up now with evolving needs for connection. Much of that is satisfied by our families, who naturally, are the relationship priority. Not all my friends are married with families. But even my single friends, at this point in our lives, have jobs and routines that do not facilitate the immediacy of those daily friendship where one conversation is merely picked up the next time you see each other instead of these "catch-up" conversations that start with "So what's been going on?" In the "catch-up" conversations I learn momentous events have effected my dear friends tremendously -- cancer scares, job promotions, a shift in perspective. In my youth, it hurt me to learn of such momentous events anytime other than concurrent with the occurrence itself. I felt betrayed, left out, less loved. Now, the timing of the telling is not significant -- just the telling, and perhaps more importantly, the listening.

Hawks

2006-09-22T13:18:00.000-07:00

This morning, I took my daughter to her friend's house. Her friend lives on a quiet suburban street. At the intersection of the street, the water had collected into a small hollow. As I turned the corner, a bird was standing in the water. I stopped the car, as the bird took no action to move out of my way.

The bird was a small hawk. I looked it in the eye.

I used to see hawks all the time. In the spring and summer, I saw them every day as I commuted to work. the hawks circled over the freeway, swooping with the air currents in that motionless flight unique to these birds. Why would they circle the freeway? There was no prey -- just the traffic. Why were they there for me to see?

I also saw hawks daily from my office window as my office is in the hills of Southern California. I often saw them in pairs. As the summer became hotter, I stopped seeing them.

Recently, I have not seen too many hawks. When I became aware that I had not seen hawks for a while I became a little anxious. The hawks are messengers that things are alright. To not see the hawks did not bode well. I do find it significant that today's hawk sighting, at such close range too (most unusual), corresponds with Rosh Hoshanna -- although I am not yet sure what it signifies.

I am always grateful when I see them. Their grace. Their flight -- as if they own the wind. I just learned that hawks are a powerful totem. They are messengers and guides to inspiration.