Pay Day

Need to get them out of my head. Let thoughts flow across the monitor, while plugged into Sarah Mclachlan: I Love You.

Men on each side of the house weld steel beams, drill more concrete and dirt, build retaining walls. Water line broke again. Laundry won’t get done today. Guess I’ll have to resort to bikini underwear.

Power flickers as fish entertain Pandy on a flat screen. Spa music lulls Peaches to sleep. I dance to Sade, Prince, and Sarah – then tap on the keyboard.

In a red blazer, Ann whizzes down the stairs trailing hints of Shalimar. I rush down to get the welder’s truck moved. Earlier, one of the steel beams fell on his hood. I watched it happen. Let out a big sigh as if fell away from the sliding glass door.

It’s lunch time. I noticed them huddled by the bamboo with their tortilla grill. Oh yeah – I need to eat breakfast. Maybe I can even get another cup of coffee. They’re singing Mexican songs now. Wonder if there’s tequila in the water. After all, it is Friday and Pay Day.

 

Morning in Ireland

Jetlag and excitement woke me the second morning in Ireland.  Grabbing my journal, I climbed the long staircase to the extra bedroom.  We used it for Yoga and stretching.  An expansive view of ocean, beach, and golf course could be seen from both rooms.

Morning in Ireland

Perched on the window bench
Gazing at Doonbeg’s shore
No one is around
Only me and the birds.

Waves lap on a bare beach
Golf greens are undisturbed
Nothing can be heard
Just calls from the birds.

Flocks fly over the ocean,
Peck at newly planted seed
No one is here 
to see them but me.

Tan sand stretches for miles

Islands inhabit the horizon
All else is vanished
It’s just me and the sea.

Waves roll softly in

Making a gentle splash,
All that I can see
Is Ireland’s beauty.

Mothers are Angels

In Honor of Mothers' Day

The second woman to win my father’s heart touched mine in many ways. I believe that when my first Mom passed away, she sent an angel so we would still have a mother.

The other day, I thought about my first mother, Laura, and what a tragic loss her death was for everyone. My parents were happily married for 10 years. She died one week before my 4th birthday. My brother was only two.

The evening I thought of her, I picked up a favorite book of poetry. I randomly opened it and read a poem about someone who lost a loved one. They wished they could take back harsh words spoken. It reminded me of my parent’s heartbreaking story. They quarreled one night and didn’t make up before leaving for work the next morning. My mother died in a horrible car accident that day. My father carried the guilt with him for the rest of his life. The painful tragedy made it difficult for him to talk about her. It took me a long time to stop crying when hearing the word: Mother.

Wish I knew my Mom … heard her voice … recognized a little bit of her in me. I have only two memories of her. Through writing, I hope to remember more. There are so many things burning to be asked: What was it like growing up with eight brothers, being the second youngest? Did your parents talk about living in Italy? How did you and Dad meet? When did you know you were in love? What made you laugh, or cry? Are you still able to see us? Are you with Dad and my second Mom now?

I think the reason my second Mom, Connie, touched my life so much was because I had another chance to have a wonderful mother. I felt blessed. I remember one night when she bathed my sister and me. We were five or six. I used to call her Mommy Connie. Looking up at her I said, “Is it ok if I just call you Mommy?”

Her beautiful blue eyes filled with tears as she hugged me. I knew it was ok.

I admired her creative talents, compassionate nature, and young spirit. Her fortitude amazed me. Mom played classical piano, raised four children, created two statues, and wrote about vampires. The various hair colors over years highlighted her creativity and rebellion. Born with auburn hair, she also wore it red with a blonde streak, let it fade to silvery gray, and bleached it blonde. It even turned green once when pool chlorine tainted the color. She had a multi-colored wig in the sixties. Shaved and painted her head while attending the Fashion Institute in L.A.

When my thirteen-year relationship ended, Mom called daily to make sure I was ok – to give me support and comfort. That’s what she did, not only for her children but for friends and strangers too. She didn’t do anything half-way. She delved in fully. It’s why she earned the nickname “Cannonball Connie.” As kids, we giggled and screamed when we saw her running towards the pool, holding her nose, and plunging like a cannonball into the pool, splashing buckets of water off the sides.

I am very grateful for the good fortune of having two mothers – my angels. I miss them both so much.

I Am Here

The winged female statue gazes down at me. Red curls of wire cascade onto her chest of slivered mirrors. She stands tall with legs crossed on hoofed feet. My eyes shift around the studio to Muse paintings and Sahu Atman – the half-male, half-female statue with Egyptian inspired breastplate and twisted metal hair. One arm holds the hip; the other arm severed. A cobra wraps around the feet and legs. Sahu proudly presents the autobiography piece covering most of one wall. In front of the desk is a bookcase full of poetry, literary classics, world religions, and Egyptian mythology.

Beethoven’s Fur Elise plays softly. My mother’s spirit is alive in the studio. I feel her presence everywhere. I stand and face Mom’s self-portrait. When she was alive, her last work of art hung in the bedroom behind a door. I never got a close look at it before. Her face emerges amidst blue, green, and purple paint trickling down the canvas. A gold cross sparkles in each pupil, imbedded next to a tiny photo – a toddler in the left eye, a recent picture of Mom in her right eye. I stepped in closer and noticed messages scrawled in the corners, some written backwards: I am here. I am within. I am everywhere. Immortality.

Chills run through my body. I just thought I feel her everywhere. Her painting reveals to me those same words. The more I study it, the more I see. Next to her face is a woman’s profile filled with pyramids, stone arches, and fields. Clouds fill her head. A faint angelic image is in the clouds. Crosses painted and affixed appear in random places.

The words: MORS is written on the top of a pyramid. In ancient Roman Myth and literature, Mors is the personification of death equivalent to the Greek Thánatos. One depiction of Thanatos is a marble sculpture as a winged and sword-girl youth. The Greek poet Hesiod established in his Teogony (the birth of the Gods) that Thánatos is a son of Nyx (Night) and Erebos (Darkness) and twin of Hynos (Sleep):

"And there the children of dark Night have their dwellings, Sleep and Death, awful gods. The glowing Sun never looks upon them with his beams, neither as he goes up into heaven, nor as he comes down from heaven. And the former of them roams peacefully over the earth and the sea's broad back and is kindly to men; but the other has a heart of iron, and his spirit within him is pitiless as bronze: whomsoever of men he has once seized he holds fast: and he is hateful even to the deathless gods."

Sarai is written backwards under Mors. Sarai is Persian for “palace.” There is also a variation meaning: home (Saraa).  These interpretations embody my mother’s artwork, passion, and philosophy:

“… As a seeker of truth I believe, through my art, I can be a channel for the wisdom of the ages using symbolism drawn from the spiritual doctrines of ancient civilizations and mythology” … “reminding the viewer of his/her individual mortality and seeks to define a sense of immortality through reincarnation provoking a sense of spiritual quietude.”

Mom is here with me. Her spirit lives in my heart. Gratitude and reverence overflow knowing she continues to inspire and guide me along my journey in this life.



The Bubble

My brother Gary teases me about living in a bubble. He's right. Today, someone burst my yoga buzz. The “bubble” remained intact.

This morning while washing cat dishes, I watched a scrub jay peck at the palm tree. I noticed something large walking at the top of the back yard. It’s a deer I thought and ran to grab my Iphone. The deer munched on bushes, as I snapped away. Several times, her round dark nose turned my way, as she continued to munch away. Within minutes, it sauntered over to the next yard. I sighed from relief knowing the lot leads to a canyon. Later, I realized I noticed the deer because I took time to gaze at the bird. It allowed me a rare opportunity to witness wildlife in those few short minutes. We only see deer, bobcats, sometimes raccoon or skunks a couple of times a year. Their presence tickles us and it is encouraging to know they’re still around.

Thursday is a particularly special day. I start with an inspiring yoga class then write at the studio. Before class, a woman introduced herself to me. “Hi, I’m Nancy. I’m visiting from Nebraska.”

“Welcome, I replied. I’m Michelle.”

Deva Premal’s soothing voice filled the room, as we rolled out our yoga mats. Treva started with slow movements, gradually leading to a quick flow of Downward Dog, Plank, and Upward Dog. Bending over, we rolled up one vertebra at a time like a strand of pearls. Turning to our right, we stepped out and reached down into Triangle pose. Standing in Mountain pose, arms stretched upwards and around, folding at our heart. At the end, we laid down in Shavasana calming our body and minds. Several minutes passed. I felt Treva step by me as she spritzed eucalyptus and lemongrass oil. A light mist covered my cheek.

“Wiggle your toes and fingers. Bring moisture to your mouth,” she said.

We rolled over to our right side and sat in Lotus position. “Thank you for being here with me, today.” Her eyes met each person’s in the room.

I bowed to her, “Namaste.”

We usually sit for a minute to relish the relaxation. Treva said to Nancy, “Take your time if you like.”

“It’s a special morning, I said. I saw a deer in my backyard.”

Nancy turned and looked at me.

“Can you believe it … here in Laguna?” I smiled like a child who had just seen Santa.

Without blinking she replied, “We hit deer with our cars, shoot them and eat them.”

The bubble burst. I could hardly speak. The anguished look on my face spoke volumes.

“Well, that’s what we do, she said. We hunt deer and eat them.”


I do not understand people who hunt. Their intention is completely opposite of mine. My respect for animals extends to the point that I choose not to eat meat. Ann and I talked about hunting, just last night, when she called from her hotel room in Houston. She couldn’t get into the hotel she normally stays at because The Rodeo is in town. Another “sport” I find cruel and senseless. I expressed sympathy for the calves and bulls that would be chased, captured, and roped up.

It’s true. I live in a bubble. I wrap precious layers of kindness, compassion, respect, and innocence protectively around me, and those I love. Through it, we can see the other side of humanity. It however is unable to penetrate our essence.


“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.´
-- Mahatma Gandhi