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.