the moon

last night I awoke to brightness, not in my mind, but the moon illuminating the snow in my back yard, there was light so bright that I had to get up and look out to make sure no other lights were on outside, but it was only the moon.

I want to shine again like the the moon, softly, light without too much brightness, not like a June bug on and off, just light and easy, and loving. I've manged not to set limits and have exhausted myself. So I will rest and get balanced again.

The moon is coming up again tonight, through the black limbs of the trees across the street, in the 6pm night sky, soft hazy clouds around it, like a child's book cover, placed where the sun sometimes comes in the west in the morning. Soft and sweet tonight. In my living room, the only other light is the lamp beside the computer bright behind the paper lantern shade. Tonight after meditating I sit relaxing in my living room, the one I designed for me, all this beautiful art and loving that it's comforting to sit here. I thank the person today who e-mailed me and said, "not many people go after their dreams and you did". One person might think it foolish, what I've done, but I've done it before and made it a whole new life happen, so I tried again. This time it wasn't easy. I see it not as failure, it was disappointing, maybe I just spent myself out before I got there and wasn't able to give it the time it needed to happen. The people I met there said I should have given it more time. I made some lovely friends in a very short time there. Maybe I didn't trust enough, or maybe I've had all the adventures I'm going to. Isn't that what we learn from, that some things work and some things don't.

hanging on

After a good nights sleep, nine to be exact, she was glad to be getting on the road early. Though 7:15am seems very reasonable to check out, not too early. She made two trips outside, her back to the bitter wind moving sideways to the car, the back pack, coat, toiletries, and suitcase. The small half and half sat on the TV stand. It was the last thing to leave the room with a bag of food. She drove for 1 1/2 hours, it didn't make sense to her, she'd slept well but even with lots of black tea she felt dozy driving. She choose to get off the road and slept in the parking lot for 1 hour and 20 minutes. When she awoke from the deep sleep she decided to buy some food from the Elko supermarket that she'd slept in front of. She doesn't like regular coffee but she was concerned that this drive was dull through the desert of Nevada so she thought she'd force herself to drink it. With no cream in the supermarket near the free coffee she poured the black coffee into her thermal cup, planning on adding her own half and half. Once at the car she couldn't find it. No memory as to where she put it. She remembered bringing it out of the room, but it wasn't in the cooler and there are no crannies, not with the car so packed. She drove a block and poured out the black coffee and bought the cheap cappuccino, the type that's pre-made in all gas stations now. Drinking it would ensure no doziness for her.

Two hours later, stopping at a rest stop, walking towards the rest rooms she turned to lock the car with the remote, looking at the drivers side, there sat the little container of cream, perched between the luggage rack and the Thule rack. Complete. Whole. It has been on a 80 mph joy ride, not secured. Looking a little worse for wear.

It's the way she feels right now, only her joy ride has been thousands of miles. She's lucky, she has a home to go to, work will come, she's sure, and she's always willing to work hard, but right now she's bedraggled, dazed. Looking in the mirror she's looking worse for wear, at least thats what her tired eyes see.

She got a reprieve from driving today, she's land locked in Salt Lake City, northern Utah got hit really bad with snow and I-80 is closed. Another story with no meaning other than what we read into them

threes

Long shadows cast their impressions over the carpet. It's 9:12am and everyone is sleeping, except me. One dog, Zimmy, lays with his head on his front legs, the sun streaming over his blond body his red collar fading in the light. Behind him the black dog, Satchi, lays, her legs outstretched, her blue collar holding the green license tag, to complete the triangle the cat, Rudi, lays in the shade of the chair, head catching sun from some little crack of light.

In one bedroom, two sleep, in the other, one sleeps, flowers sit on a window sill, kitchen cabinets open to cashew nuts in jars, a carrot juice, unopened on a side table, on the walls fractal art mixed with Shalandama's photo's. A refrigerator magnet says 'THINK, it's not illegal yet'. There's a mango on the window sill above the sink, next to the flowers, it has a big chunk out of it. Maybe it's getting riper. It feels as if life is suspended, waiting for them to all start moving.

my respect to the Master

Maharishi was never my master, though not for any reason. He just never was.

I first remember being aware of Maharishi at Goddard college in Vermont in 1972 where I was going to school. My dorm, the 'Clean and Quiet dorm', or also known as the 'Queen and Quiet dorm' (a reference to sexual orientation of many of the dorm students) was in the same building separated by a concrete wall, from the TM dorm. Our building abetted the woods of campus facing the pond, away from the wilder students, who were smoking pot and drinking heavily. We wanted quiet, quiet study and a quiet life. I stayed away from the lectures of the TM dorm. I'd just moved up from Boston where I'd been in the macrobiotic community. I wanted nothing more to do with the elitist/organized groups of people who thought their way was the only way. But I liked all the people who practiced TM that I met. I remember Toby Fiendblum (sp?), whose obituary was in the FWR not too many years ago. She had come back to Goddard to visit, the dorm mates in both dorm's were falling over themselves to greet her. She entertained us that night singing songs, one being 'I'm forever blowing bubbles'. They clapped and yelled for the bliss she eluded, she was very sweet and effervesant. Her name was the only name I remember from there. I also helped some sweet cute guy buy a suit to go to teacher training. For some reason, maybe because I was English, he wanted my fashion advice. We went to look at seersucker suits. I talked him into a lovely Pierre Cardin dark blue velveteen, which he probably roasted in on his summer visit to Switzerland. But I never knew, I never heard about him again.

It wasn't until I was living in London in 1981 that Maharishi's name came back into my life to stay, well, really forever. I met George Gallagher in the ballroom of the London Hilton and fell in love with him at first sight. We spent a few days together and he flew back to US. Two weeks later, wanting to woo the dark handsome 'executive Govener of the Age of Enlightenment' I learned TM in London alone, without the confirming experiences of others in a group, from an older TM teacher in London called Jet Fairley. Within 10 days I was in the Houston, visiting George and going to the TM Center having my 10 day checking. Jane Hobson ran the Center. And I stayed never returning to live in London again. Within a year I was a Sidha. And a few months later I married George, in the ensuing 13 years we had two children, traveled and lived a good life. I like to think it was TM that bought me George, my two sons and all that followed in Fairfield. I never got to see Maharishi. Andrew was 10 days old when we came to the 7,000 course, women with babies were delegated to Yagyavalka hall to watch over a satellite the great field house hall where all the other meditaters were squished to be with Maharishi. For me it all did start with wanting the light I saw in the man I fell in love with, the pure light of consciousness is what I always believed I saw, which was given from Maharishi to George. I like to think I gave my children that, that light, everyday while I meditated with them in my womb. The rest, the rest is everyone's own experience, it's only what we have to go on, my experience was that when I learned to meditate my life changed. Jai Guru Dev

Sweet dream

Friendliness and kind words, that’s what the morning bought, sunshine and music.

My cell phone jingles with my son Andrew’s ring tone “what are you doing Momma? Can you meet me at 2060 University” he laughs, it’s an unexpected lunch with him. The day before the plan was for me to drive up to Mendocino to see him, but now he’s eating at an Indian restaurant, then he’s rushing off to L.A. I don’t know when I’ll see him again. This is Andrew sharing and open, this is the way I want it between us always. He pulls out a camera as small as a credit card, hands it to his friend Josh, “please take a photo of my Momma and I.” None of us are sure if it’s taking the photo or not, my new camera is sitting in the car, I feel too emotional to get it, I don’t want sad eyed photo’s of me with him.

Later walking up Bancroft and other side streets towards Shattuck my back is hurting from the computer in the back pack I’m dragging around with me. I walk into the park by the Peace Wall and stop to sit on an empty bench to open wifi. I’ve been wanting to enter something on the blog for a few days. I glanced over to see Peter, mad finger tapping Peter, on the opposite bench. Leaving my bench for his we talked like old friends. I asked “was there something bad with me the night we went for dinner with your friend Geoffrey?”, I ask as he had rushed off suddenly. “No” he insistently laughs, he was match making really. He feels sorry for Geoffrey, he’s alone and his life is fucked up. He was gifting us to one another. He thought I might be good for Geoffrey, and who knows I might have been. He eyes are laughing and fingers are on his three lettered keyboard. The skate boarders are whirling around us in the 70F Berkeley afternoon.

Back walking up the road up to the movie theater, a girl walks by, “nice bag” she murmurs and I thank her, half a block away she stops and calls out, “where is it from Mexico?” and I return the call, “not sure, I bought it at Farmers Market”, we smile and nod to each other, yes friendliness and kind words. This is what I’m sad to leave. This meeting of the ‘so few’ I know in such a largely populated little city. There are thousands of people and I still run into those I know. Just three days ago when parking at the Post Office Myla walked out of the Cheese Store, and I noticed her, when I could just have easily missed her. She eased into the passenger seat and managed the seat belt. I drove the car around University, back to Tenth street, passing the graffiti and the anti war sign on the house opposite the YMCA. There are Peace signs in windows and people sitting behind them talking in low voices, trying to figure out a way to stop the war.

In Iran they are mutilating and murdering woman for not wearing head scarves or other infractions of extremist secular teachings, and I am safe, threatened by no one. At times like this I want to remember, remember my luck, my fortune to be in the life I have.

As I walk out of the movie, Caramel, a Lebanese chick flick, Phil calls and we meet a few blocks away for Coffee. I have already canceled our evening of going to see some music. He is beautiful. Radiant. He looks his best, soft gray jacket, softer still shirt and the small two inch mother of Pearl guitar pendant that he bought when we were in Big Sur hangs where another man would wear a tie. He greets me with all the warmth and love that I have fallen in love with him for. He knows what I want and need. I hold back, I’m leaving within 36 hours and don’t want to confuse myself or him by surrendering into him. It’s another night where I weep, from the sadness of walking away from this blissful man, the one that lives just in the moments, that’s where he stands moment by moment. Something of my practical nature, of the past men, and past hurt, stops me from leaping into the unknown, red flags flying, I’m not sure whose they are but they are there and I know better than to ignore them. I have done that sometimes and it’s usually me and others who chide later, “didn’t you see the signs?”

I ask him to drop me at Marc’s. As we start to drive I can tell he’s heading for his house, and I am strong, “don’t do this, don’t Shanghi me” so he turns left, the car now heading away and we drive to Marc’s. Marc isn’t there as he said he would be. We sit for a few minutes there and not wanting to go back to Myla yet I ask him to drive me to Café Trieste. He asks me to write it down, to make it permanent. He pulls out the little metal silver note pad, like the one he gave me in red, “write it down” he repeats. I take the pen which slides out beside the pad, and start the pen moving slowly, cautious, something like “take her to where you found her at Café Trieste” seeps out into the paper he makes me sign it, it’s painful. We pull into the back parking lot behind Trieste, he’s kissing me with love kisses, the ones that go deep into my being. He tells me he loves me, and I believe he does. We talk trying to make sense of three months, there is no sense between us. We accuse each other of not trying one way or the other, I think there’s truth in both our accusations. We talk of trying at some other point, some other time, to get together and I feel the pull of him, the pull of who I want us to be. Pulling the door handle, groping in the dark for handles and words and lost understandings, I walk out of the alley, past the tree we first kissed under.

My cell phone in hand I call Marc who has just walked into his house. I walk over the few blocks and fumble through the DVD’s, I just want to watch a movie, escape these moments, Tombstone is a favorite of Marc’s and I’ve never seen it. Sipping wine in big easy chairs we watch Val Kilmer and his cronies, it’s the opposite of a chick flick, it’s the hardness men want and tonight it will do for me. It’s late and I ask him if he will drive me back to Myla’s. Marc slips some sweats over his silk p.j. pants and drives me back, zip, zip in his little red car, like a race car driver, that’s what it feels like, zip zip that’s been my day and Myla’s happy to see me, she sits on the couch with me while I lay under my temporary covers sharing some of the day.

One more night and it’ll be like a dream, a sweet dream.

Homeward Bound

It's 13 weeks, from a time when I decided I wanted to be in Berkeley to leaving it. Funnily enough I think I gave it a good try, being somewhat of the adventuress I hope, yet always too practical, it wasn't working, too much work and beginning to feel like a struggle. Too many nights of feeling homeless. I've seen that starting a new life, esp in a city isn't as easy as it used to be for me, maybe I never went anywhere fully alone. I've become accustomed to my creature comforts. I've been flexible in this journey, but at some point it just wasn't working. I've made some good friends, too sad a romance ended, quicker than I would have believed, it's a learning process always. It's hard finding out that you can't keep seeing the person you fell in love with. Some things don't make sense.
My mother too is ill in phoenix, I'm not sure what that really means or even if I can do anything to help the situation. I will go and do my best. The great thing is, I"m going back to everything I love. It doesn't get better than that

Nomad Cafe seems appropriate a place

to be on the Internet looking for a room of my own. In 20 minutes I'm off and running, someone's place to see, to sublet. Really I should be looking for a back up place now. If this doesn't work I'll be back at it tomorrow, and yes, alright, there's little fiction going on here...
waking up this morning I remember waking up last night after an hour and a half of sleep. Why was I so angry leaving Trieste? As I awoke from last nights disjointed sleep time -Myla had been wondering room room to room and circling past me talking to herself as I slept - I sat up, it was a sort of ahha, and after only so little sleep. 'I need somewhere to call my own', at least as a room with a door for me to be behind, away from mad moments and fatigue. It's enough, enough of living out of suitcases after seven months. It's not my nature to be out of nest.
The anger, yes, I figured it out too. Only hiding a belief that won't serve me. Fatigue must do that, pick up old thoughts, old ways of being and own them, as I notice those thoughts I will knock them away, I want no limits on what I can do. I will inspire myself, I will be that little engine that could that I read my children nightly, yes I can, yes you can, yes we will, and spread the word, meet to greet, smile, and become my own world of self sufficiency here in Berkeley. Find some women to write with. I just need to remind myself, pioneering is fun, at times a challenge, growing within and it's not for the faint of heart. Urge me on if you see me on the path, it's a quieter, less intimate trek than I thought it would be, but ah so rich, loving, loving, there I am. an yes more photo's there must be one a day.

Fernland (fairytale?)

In the corner of the garden two elephant ferns hide his smiling face. He's damp and it's dark today. He's been looking for snake and newt, they are usually here at this time. He thinks they must be under one of the rocks he's sitting near, but he can't be bothered to move around and look for them and he knows that the stone muffles the sound of his soft voice so he won't bother calling them. Besides, they complain about his morning manner, they so sluggish, he so swift. And they're warm where they are, so waking them invites more than the complaint about himself, it comes with a barrage of complaints. He'll contemplate the redwood grove next door. It will be removed and then the only sign it was ever there will be the shavings and droppings of their dark brown trunk and limbs and the composting fir. He won't even open up to talking to the trees, it's too sad. They're close to weeping, which is only normal in the situation. Who's to protect? There are no tree hugger's here, it's just a little grove.

ten minute writings - A.J.

he's bending, bending and blowing, leaves elude the blower, like the people walking by him that elude his laughing eyes. His ear plugs stay in place under his black beanie hat and the breath from his mouth wisps out in little trails like the dust in the cold morning air. His hands are covered in those yellow felt work gloves with red edges. He wears army jeans from the surplus store. The cigarette papers, and gum wrappers run off the pavement into the gutters. Over time we've been saved by mounds of litter by his humble giving of time to clean up each day. Red Red Wine plays over the sound system, before that a jazz singer tells of Bobby Darin. In a Cafe a stew pot of words, people and music. Off to the bus, off to a routine, to shift into, after no structure for so long.

Rest Stop in New Mexico

Melba sat in the drivers seat in the sun. It was warmer inside than the outside cold air that hangs around Berkeley in the mornings. She watched the pedestrians around her, the skateboarders, pavement bicyclists and joggers keeping warm. Juxtaposed on the street were two men, one man was dressed in a blue shirt pressed and crisp as if in that minute it had been taken out of the laundry bag from the dry cleaners. He is talking on his cell phone, pacing back and forth in a 10 ft area. He is on the east side, with the sun shinning on him. On the west side is man in the black pea coat, he huddles in the mixed light, slightly blocked from the sun in the shadow of the building, he too is on his cell phone, he is not moving. She wonders why we all behave so differently from each other, why we don't always see the easy way, or why we don't always choose it.

Adventures aren’t all comfortable is what she’s telling herself, that’s why they’re called adventures. They’re up and down and much easier when you don’t drag around a lot of stuff to cope with, both in your mind and in your suitcases. She’s giving herself a pep talk, the type she’d give to anyone who would listen if they were doing what she’s doing. She’s fixing the moment because it doesn’t feel upbeat. It feels like she’s crying, though she's not and she’s not wanting to go there. It’s easy to get lost in a city and even easier to get lost in one’s mind.

The sun reminds her of last week, sitting in the car in Nevada watching the sun change the skies and tree's colors, even on the buildings, it's happening every few seconds. She drove around the parking lot twice, She's pressing the button on her new SLR. On the second drive around as she passed the adobe picnic building, she saw the reflection of the car after the fact. Then she backed up and from inside the car, it too warmer than the outside sun setting evening, she snapped the moment. It looked like a picture inside of a picture, that's the way her life seemed today, a life in someone else's life.

Blue Sky list, not fiction

I want to be grateful
I want:
to remember the love all the time
warmer days to stay around with bluer skies
my smile back intact/my chest bones opens/easier breathing in and out
more laughter/let go of concern
25 hours of work per week that pays me better than ever
a bedroom of my own to close the door to
my house to rent to the right tenants ASAP
my own clear boundaries
good diet/food
lots of music, movies, art
walking time everyday
invitations to be where people congregate in comfortable living rooms
not to be judged for anything other than being myself
to give without losing myself
a woman's writing group
to remember peoples names
to get in touch with contacts given to me by friends
time to get the letter off to mom
to be safe each and everyday
to remember charity everyday

the sign

She's still thinking of Blue, she turns and the blue car, washed by yesterdays rain could clearly mean nothing, though she will give it a story.

They dash out of the door, the buses on San Pablo only run every 20 minutes. They thought they could sneak in a coffee while waiting for the bus and they do, coffee cups in hand they catch the doors as they are closing and get on, laughing at each other's breathlessness they sit, kissing with coffee breath. Peeling off a layer of hat or scarf they drift into silence. He's worried about the car, there's been too many expenses this month and he doesn't like how money leeches his sense of providing for them both. She's got her job, and she'd feel slighted if he told her he's worried because she feels he doesn't value what she's doing, but he wants to carry more than half the weight. It's nothing more than pride, he knows he's setting himself up.

The thought of leaving the timing belt un-repaired and using buses is appealing right now, parkings always a bitch, too often someone is finding his space on the block on Dwight Way, where he has all day parking. He likes that the bus goes close enough to his studio and the walk to and from home makes up for no exercise he's been getting since giving up the gym. Giving up, they're both always trying to figure out what to give up. The coffee out? no, it makes them feel rich to see the neighbors and friends, and the friends with kids, they can smile and be pleasant with the kids eating biscotti without having to sit in their houses while Molly/Brent or which ever child whines for more food, more attention, more cartoons. They don't want kids. Thats an easy choice right now, They see how thats the worst possible financial decision for them. They've already given up ski trips, and they might give up the Sunday paper. But the car, no wheels, he slides into the thought, no car for going to see the music, the stuff they've been getting into lately which is not playing locally, it's a hard one, 'fuck the money, we need the car, we'll cut corners somewhere else' he thinks, he turns to her and smiles, he loves looking at her lately, he loves how much he's come to brush her cheek with his finger, waking her in the mornings the same way each day, her downy hair from her ear to her jaw bone, the few freckles there, distinguishing her cheek from other cheeks.

she's been self indulgent, like a piano making melodrama, she's been over sensitive, over whelming others and herself, like the black keys pounding louder than they need to. Isn't it allowed some times, isn't it her prerogative, to be difficult if that's what she's wrestling with. Last night she was crying into his listening, tonight she's looking out of the window orange/red dots reflected into the raindrops dripping down the picture window, dropping as fast as her self indulgent tears from last night. Only tonight there are no tears, only detached views under the rims of her glasses. She told him right from the beginning the truth, she couldn't give herself.

She didn't want to go there, but then she wanted to change how she is, to give more than she can. Why not, some people say she's too giving but he won't agree. He'll say she's too selfish. Maybe she is, or maybe she finally wants what she wants without fear. Without fear is what lets her talk to anyone, anywhere. It's why he wants her, she's without fear...most of the time ...it's what let her rub her hand over Helen's back tonight, to say "I'm sorry" with no words.

Blue where are you when she needs you? And they don't call her, the men. Are they afraid of her what? Her what? What are they afraid of? The lioness, the hare.

Back to Blue, tell me about my prodigy, what do you see? Is there something I can do? Is there something I can relay that will stop the events from happening before they do? What if I don't think, what if I trust. Yes, I didn't make the bus, not today, and I can't plan for tomorrow. I can't plan for anything. It's out of my control, even though I want to convince myself and all of them that it's up to me. Indulgence, I'm indulging myself. It's where I started. At 23 wpm. Looking up and out one last time, there's a funny man, he's waving under the umbrella dripping no tears, only raindrops, and smiling.

Tomorrow's Saturday, chick day, chick calls, free minutes, maybe less rain.

Blue didn't call, the day after or for three more days following that. She didn't know what it was that pulled her to him. It might have been that she was drawn to his world of make believe, when hers was too helter skelter on it's own, uncomfortable in her world, someone else's crazy is soothing, it gives the illusion that her own life is normal.

She thought of driving up to Telegraph looking for him, but she wants to travel around town on the Bart anyway. In someway today she'd make it happen, maybe Perry, the manager of her storage unit would be willing to show her around, it's his day off and he likes walking, this might be a way of killing three birds with one stone and she's moving in three's these days. Three men, three rings, the list is endless, trilogies of life.

Drinking tea she sat smiling at the thought that, when she'd opened her P.O. box the Tennessee counter clerk had sent her on to get her box saying in front of all the line of customers, "tell Maria I said you're cool". It wasn't what she'd meant, she'd meant that I'd passed all the requirements for the box, but this is Berkeley, it's where cool is cool and the clerk speaks in song and the stout man walking into Trieste has eyebrows bushy and wild that stick out two inches, that is his cool. We all have our cool. Hers is the hat right now. Berkeley is where the mind reader in the blue hat - says "they know me as 'blue' on Telegraph if you need to find me". He's really old money from England and a crazy artist, but maybe really makes money from his art, which he says will scare her. He says he created a good deal of the Star Wars metalworks, she wants to see it. He knows the Angel Pub and he knew the pond was gone and he knows Dick Turpin was not hung at Tibbits Corner, he knows they dragged his body there only after a judge told them they should have hanged him at Tibbits, but it's too late because he's already dead. He's told her that he can see the distinguishing mannerisms she uses and knows what part of her brain she's using, and that she is unique. Of course that works for her. "We used to cut up the brain you know, dissected them, we know what's going on there" and it's interesting to listen to him, even though he's crazy. In any case after that he tells her they're like sister and brother and that will work for her. How many characters can you gleam in a day - all of them she thinks.

Thank you for everything....it's Hard to leave

Today I'm 57, not 47 as previous typo'ed.

My apologies if you are checking to read some news, there is just no time to write, I'm still packing and a day late outta Dodge.........but it's been a lovely few weeks being here and feeling very loved, I will miss you.

The party was so sweet, thanks for all the food and good company and belly dancers, singers, cooks etc and we've collected over $800, a thank you letter will be in the FWR,
also as soon as there's time to write I will also post many many photo's that Phil took in FF, wonderful ones, everywhere with all of you,
More soon, love Debs

photos will be posted in a day or two.....

please come to the party, after the 10th I may be on 'blog vacation' for a week.

sunrise skies
gray and blue today
like corrugated cotton balls
I'll miss this mornings facing east
looking as the sunrises
with tea beside me
now Rooibos, less robbing
the body of calcium is what I'm trying to do
sometimes i don't free write at all
if only i could type as fast as my thoughts
well there's a reason not to keep saying
I'm still not touch typing yet

New Years in Iowa City, with Phil and Resolutions

I'm at the Sheraton, Andrew made a flight out today, which is amazing since it's freezing and snowing. American Airlines isn't even flying today, major delays out of Chicago.
Phil's flight got cancelled out of Chicago into Moline last night, luckily he managed at the last minute to get a puddle hopper to Cedar Rapids 6 hours later than originally due into Moline. That was good too as I had made it as far as Iowa City, didn't want to drive to Illinois and had booked us into this hotel at a great price. I thought if we'd be stuck somewhere up here, being walking distance to the Mill, where an Afro-Caribbean group were playing at midnight might have it's merits.

"Euforquestra is an eclectic world-beat ensemble from Iowa City, IA with interests in different cultural and traditional musics from all over the globe. The band has made a mission statement out of preserving different traditions, indiscriminatingly trying anything at least once and fusing different styles that appeal to them. The self-proclaimed "Afro-Caribbean-Barnyard-Funk" touches on such genres as Afrobeat, Afro-Cuban, Samba, Soca, Funk, Reggae, and Bluegrass."

Web site: http://www.euforquestra.com/welcome/index.html

They did, we sat in the "seniors section", and danced in the New Year with a few Fairfield kids, in the distance, doing the conga at 12:30AM. Afterwards trying to find food we hung out with all the crazy kids looking for food like us at 1AM. We ended up at Pizza on Dubueque, with the girls who had barely a stitch of clothing on and bare feet in the snow, ah to be young and foolish again (not!)
New Years Resolutions:
1. Give to charity more
2. Love and accept more
3. Let go more
4. Write tons and tons (get the book DONE) more
5. Travel more, all the places I want to
6. Listen better than ever (more!)
7. See my kids more
8. Do more for the world
9. Do more for the world
10. Do more for the world

Wishing you the Best of Years to come with, well,... with more PEACE for us all
I love you Debs