Getting Ready to Rock and Roll (or Explaining What Happens for Me During Energy Therapy)

I had my first visit with the energy healer, Donnamarie Steffano, in September 2003. I went on the recommendation of two friends, with the goal of "collecting a new experience." Fifteen years ago, I was living in an urban commune of sorts, and exploring the hippie dippie side of my personality. I was a vegetarian, went to yoga dance sessions monthly, and worked for a nonprofit that helped rich people get in touch with their inner progressive. At the time, exploring energy therapies was not a stretch.

Energy therapy, as I've experienced it, takes place in a massage therapy room. After declaring my intention with the therapist (e.g., to get help processing lingering grief, to better understand an eating disorder, etc.), I take off all of my jewelry, and my shoes, and lie flat on my back on the massage bed - no pillows or bolsters. I close my eyes, and let the therapist do her work.

And her work simply sounds like someone moving around my body, exhaling or inhaling deeply. The audible breath sounds to me like that of a Sleestack from the television program Land of the The Lost. I peeked during my first sessions, and Donnamarie had her hands extended above my body, as if she was touching something.

The energy therapist asks for feedback during the session, so she can understand how my energy is responding. (OK, I know what you are thinking. This is the trick. She asks for feedback, and then adjusts her feedback to fit my narrative so I think something is happening, like a fortune teller. I get it. Just wait. There's more.)

She also gives feedback. During my first session, I remember  her telling me, "I have an overwhelming desire to recite the Lord's Prayer. What does this mean to you?"

I immediately remembered my grandmother's last day on this planet, When, after being in a coma for at least two days, her older sister (who was her best friend), came to visit and say good-bye. With the family minister, Aunt Esther was reciting the Lord's Prayer, when my Gramma opened her eyes and reached out her hand. I and the two sisters I was with at the time, alerted Aunt Esther to Gramma's movement, and she was able to hold her sister's hand as she finished the prayer.

I told this to Donnamarie and she replied, "Your grandmother was very short, yes? (She was about 4' 8" at the time of her death.) I can see her standing by your head. Know she is with you right now. She is telling me that she'll be with you when you need her."

With that, I was hooked.

I've seen Donnamarie maybe half a dozen times since then, most recently yesterday, when I went with the goal of finding my center. Here's what happened.

1. After we caught up with one another, I declare my intention of getting help being energetically unclogged.

2. I take my place on the bed and tried to relax.

3. Donnamarie says, "Oh wow. There is nothing moving in you."

4. So she starts doing the breathing thing. Within two minutes, I start to feel as if I am expanding so rapidly that I am going to pop, like Violet Beauregard in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. It feels like an infection that is going to burst. I tell Donnamarie what's happening and that I am starting to freak out. She tells me to start doing yogic breathing - breathe in for four counts, hold the breath for four counts, breathe out through my mouth for four counts.

4a. At the same time, I am overwhelmed by the desire to stab myself. Repeatedly, in my abdomen. Maybe to relieve the pressure in my body? To this, I say nothing because I feel ashamed and afraid of this violence towards myself. But fearful of the impulse, another part of my psyche starts singing the refrain from  "All You Need is Love" by the Beatles. The war between the stabbing and the "love, love, love" goes on for a while. I'm also trying to tell myself to relax, to sink into the bed. But a part of my is fearful that if I sink, I'll be buried alive. I am imaging the bed as soft earth that swallows me whole. "The bed is not the earth. You will not be swallowed whole if you relax. Love, love, love..." I repeat. All without saying a word to Donnamarie. She has no idea what is happening with my self-talk.

5. Donnamarie says to me, "You are COVERED in something red and sticky. I don't know what it is. But I'm going to try and clear it." Spooky. I haven't told her I am psychically trying to stab myself. But she sees it anyway.

6. Then something shifts, and I feel myself being anchored at belly button to the bed. And my belly starts swirling. The motion is distinct, and I feel as if I'm slowly disappearing into the bed as I'm pulled deeper and deeper at the belly button down. The feeling is restricted to my belly button (or sacral chakra in energy talk).

7. Donnamarie says "The negative energy is starting to drain." I think to myself, "Oh, that's what this feeling is in my belly. It is like a bathtub emptying after a long soak." I start to relax.

8. As I'm draining, all I can see behind my closed eyes is a sheet of purple and indigo, the colors of the crown and third eye chakras.

9. Then the colors shift to green, the color of the heart chakra, which controls my ability to love. I start to feel as if I'm covered in the softest, puffiest, and strongest moss in the world. I think to myself, "The moss doesn't care who our president is. The moss won't be disturbed by this. I am covered in moss. I will not be disturbed."

10. Next, my hands start to feel as if they are swelling, not in the Violet Beauregard way. Instead, it feels like every cell is filling with water. Or maybe air. Or maybe loving kindness. It is pleasant. The feeling cascades up my arms. Donnamarie moves to the base of the bed and I can feel the gentle swell of loving kindness rush up my legs and into my belly, and it starts to move into my spine.

11. And then, Donnamarie ends the session. Inviting me to slowly come back to this plane, sit up when I'm ready, and be prepared to drink a glass of water.

We end each session debriefing what happened. It is during this period that I tell my energy healer that I was overwhelmed by a desire to stab myself at the exact time she was seeing me covered in something red and sticky. She said my energy created a luminous cocoon, one that looked this a diamond crystal, to protect me during our session. "Ahhh," I replied, "This must have been happening when I was afraid I was going to be buried alive."

Experiences like these help me believe in an energy, or maybe a spirit, that shapes our world, shapes our fundamental humanness. There is no rational, scientific way to explain how Donnamarie saw me covered in "something red and sticky" at the same moment I was doing internal battle over a desire to stab myself. Or explain how Donnamarie connected with my memory of the Lord's Prayer during our first session. Even BMG, someone who once went to meetings of the Boston-area skeptics society, says, "Yeah, that's crazy. I've got no explanation."

Right now the energy in many pockets of the world is ugly. I'm going to push myself to not let it take hold of me again. When I saw the neighbor taking his walk this morning, smiling and wearing his "Make America Great Again" hat, I subtly gave him the finger. Feeling the ugly energy start to creep in, I shifted to yogic breathing. In and out. In and out. In and out. From there, I decided that if he and I were to make eye contact the next time we saw one another, I'd ask him what parts of America he thinks weren't great. Luckily, I didn't have to do that (baby steps, right).

I think I can do this. I have to do this. I'll be ready.

Quirks

Smart. Neurotic. Devoted. Quirky.

This is my Twitter bio.

BMG and I have been talking about the definition of quirky. Does it imply a value judgment? Is it about personality characteristics, or could it simply be description of a mannerism or habit?

I cheated and looked at Dictionary.com and found this definition:

       a peculiarity of action, behavior, or personality;mannerism:

In calling myself "quirky," I'm primarily thinking about my:

• Zelig-like way of moving between different crowds of people, without actually being part of any particular human tribe, perhaps a function of my sun, moon, and ascendant all being in Gemini
• Habit of taking off my glasses nearly every time I use the toilet
• Routine of rocking myself when I'm having trouble sleeping, even as a nearly 50 year-old woman
• Precocious and life-long love of archeology, which includes an ability to almost conjure up the living, breathing human who lived in pre-historic and other ancient environments
• Spooky ability to remember people's names
• Extreme introversion, combined with an insatiable curiosity about other people which manifests itself as friendliness
• Particular brand of intelligence, which often causes me to see and interpret ideas and scenarios unlike most other people (and, conversely, causes me to be unmoved by circumstances that typically move others)

When I started my most recent job, the Chief Administrative Officer described me to my boss as "different." While I've long labeled myself as :quirky," nevertheless, the comment originally caused me to feel disconnected. Over time, I've come around to seeing the moniker as a recognition of the value I bring to my work, to the world. Why? Because in economic theory, the rare commodity is typically the more valuable one. 

Would you describe yourself as quirky? Which of your actions, behaviors, or mannerisms help set you apart from others? 

An Even More Perfect Union

I leave work at 3:00 on Fridays, which means instead of being getting my evening news fix from my pal Robert Siegel on NPR's All Things Considered, I'm forced to listen to PRI's The World. 

Today, on my 25-minute commute, I heard global perspectives on the outcomes of yesterday's Brexit vote. 

During the drive, I stared out the front window of my station wagon thinking not about the predictable traffic and roadways between me and my home, but instead thinking about the 17 million Britons who decided yesterday to leave the EU. 

The reasons for this too complicated for me to understand and certainly too complicated for me to explain. If you don't understand the Brexit vote, I invite you to read coverage in the New York Times and The Economist for two among the thousands of media perspectives on this historic decision by the people, for the people of the United Kingdom. 

One of the rationales given for the "leave" decision was the EU's demand that member nations comply with an open borders policy, making it possible for residents and workers to easily migrate between countries to live and work. And for older, less educated Britons who, like their American counterparts are suffering professional and economically, immigration became the easy scapegoat. One commentator on The World said a "leave the EU" campaign slogan was "Make Great Britain Great Again." 

This is a familiar refrain here in the U.S.

Which got me to thinking. 

What if we simply swapped voters? 

Think about it. The "Leave the EU" voters are kindred spirits of Donald Trump's base of support, while the "Remain in the EU" voters might be compared to Hillary Clinton supporters in their rational appreciation for the benefits that come with a nation state's investment in the collective whole. 

What if we invited the "Leave the EU" people to come live in America, hassle-free, and gave the Hillary supporters the same hassle-free option to move to the UK? 

Don't think about it. Just react. If you are a Hillary supporter, would you take the free pass to Europe? I know I would. 

Post your vote in the comments section. As with Brexit, we'll figure out the details later. 

Standing at Attention

Within the span of one week, two young men from the tony seaside suburb where I live were strikingly affected by the global military industrial complex.

On January 16, 2016, 30 year-old Matthew Trevithick, who had been imprisoned by the Iranian government for undisclosed reasons, was released and returned home to America.

Two days earlier, on January 14, 2016, 23 year-old Marine Corporal Christopher Orlando was one of 12 people who were lost in a helicopter crash off the coast of Hawaii while in the midst of training exercises. The search for the bodies was suspended after five days and Cpl Orlando and his colleagues were presumed dead.

Our tiny town organizes welcome parades for military veterans when they return home, to say thank you and to help with the vet's re-entry into small town life. While Cpl Orlando was not returning home, our Veteran's Services Department and our local emergency responders asked the community to stand vigil as a show of respect for the family as they returned home from services and debriefing with the Marines in Hawaii.

For some reason, BMG and I decided to attend.

The family was scheduled to roll into town at approximately 7:00 PM. The route for their police escort was published by our local police department. So, at 6:40 PM we left our home and headed to the library to park and stand vigil.

Photo credit: Jeffcutler.com

I was surprised by the thousands of people lining the five miles of Main Street, solemnly holding flags and thank you signs featuring the official Marine portrait of the now dead Marine. Surprised by the number of families - with children of all ages - who waited in the freezing temperatures for the convoy to roll through town. Surprised by the young parents with baby carriages who gently soothed their crying infants as the wind gently whipped past us.

Surprised and moved to tears.

We watched the police department's Twitter feed to keep apprised of the family's progress from the airport to home. It was there that we learned that emergency responders from across the state were lining bridges across the highway to pay their respects. We met up with some neighbors and, as the Twitter feed and occasional siren told us they were near our stretch of Main Street, we silenced our chatter and stood at attention.

Photo credit: JeffCutler.com

It wasn't until 8:00 PM that the family, escorted by nearly a dozen police vehicles, slowly drove past. As they did, I silently sobbed, imagining their anguish at the loss of their beloved son, the loss of potential, and, hopefully, their understanding that their community would support them through their grief.

Both BMG and I couldn't understand why we chose to join our community in this display of patriotism and pride. We don't know the family. We don't have children and wouldn't begin to pretend we understand what the parents and siblings are going through. And we aren't law and order people; standing up for the military isn't one of the community actions that make drives either one of us. But, I'm glad we paid attention to the impulse in our hearts and went. It feels like one of the most meaningful things I've done in a long time.

RIP Cpl Orlando, and Semper Fi.

....and all the children are above average

I've decided to stop thinking of people as stupid. This type of judgment doesn't help me honor the inherent worth and dignity of anyone.

Including myself.

Because embedded in the assumption that people are stupid because they don't process ideas and information the way I do is a belief that I'm average. And it logically follows that people who don't do things the way I do are therefore below average.

It dawned on me today that I could reframe my way of people in the world and assume that I'm an outlier, above average.

And the people who do things like show up at a job site without the right equipment and decide they just can't work today - instead of going back to the shop and getting the right equipment, or better yet, asking in advance "What equipment do I need?" - they're not stupid, but rather average.

I guess you could say I'm lowering my standards for humanity. I'm ok with that.

Now let us sing, sing, sing, sing!

On Saturday, December 3rd at noon at the Christian Science Plaza, the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Tanglewood Festival Chorus will attempt to break the World's Record for the Most Carolers Singing (Carols) Together (for at least 15 continuous minutes). The current record is 9,100 people, set in November 2010 in Adelaide, Australia.

So I'm going. I HAVE to go. I'm not a joiner as a general rule, but this is an extraordinary event. How many opportunities does a girl have to be part of a group trying to break a World's Record? And for something as fun as singing carols? Well, not carols plural. Just one carol. As I understand it the group will be singing "Joy to the World" for 15 minutes. Regardless, it is going to be fun!

In 2010 the BSO tried (and failed) to break the record in December 2010. This year, because I'll be there, they'll break the record.

I'd LOVE for my Boston friends to join me. Here's the scoop on being part of the fun. I'll be at P.F. Changs outside the Pru at 11:15 AM. No later than 11:25 - ideally before - I'll head across the street to become part of the caroling scrum at the Christian Science Plaza.

I have NO idea what to expect. A handful of questions run through my head. How will they count us? Will we get sheet music? How many people can fit at the Christian Science Plaza?

While there are many things I don't expect to know until I show up on Saturday, I would like to know if you plan to join me. Drop me a note in the comments section or on my Facebook page so we can work out our rendezvous plans. And afterwards, we can grab cocoa or a martini somewhere?

Happy holidays!

My ♥ Belongs to Wegmans

My hometown grocery store, love of my retail life, opened it's first store in Massachusetts today. (Unless you live under a social media rock you already know Wegmans opened in Northborough on October 16, 2011.)

What you may not know is that this store is 47 miles from my house. One way. The travel time is nearly 1.5 hours. One way.

I live within three miles of three other grocery stores. Go seven miles further and you find three more grocery stores. That's six grocery stores, that I'm aware of, within ten miles of my home.

And now, today, after having made the three-hour round trip journey, where I shopped and laughed for four hours, I cannot imagine shopping anywhere else.

I forgot to buy paper towels and plastic wrap at the hometown market today. Yet I cannot bring myself to drive the 1.5 miles to the nearest grocery store, park the car, and walk through the sad, fluorescently-lit aisles. I just can't. It depresses me.

94 miles round trip is a ridiculous and wasteful distance to travel to buy groceries, particularly when I can do the same household errand in 3. That's 1/3rd of a tank of gas versus 1/100th of a tank of gas. My conscience won't let me make the hometown market my one and only.

But my ♥ belongs to Wegmans.

Guess will be living without paper towels for a little while.

My Vegetarian Experiment

October 1 is annually World Vegetarian Day (WVD) and October is Vegetarian Awareness Month. I responded to a challenge issued by the organizers of WVD. The challenge? Experiment with being a vegetarian for a day, a week or a month.

I made a pledge to try vegetarianism for a week. If I succeed I'll be entered into a drawing to win $250. (I pledged to try vegetarianism for a month the drawing prize would be $1,000.)

I'm day five into the challenge. And, what a challenge it has been. Here is a taste of my week.

Monday - Columbus Day holiday
On a "normal" holiday Monday?

• Big breakfast with BMG at one of our favorite local diners, complete with mounds of bacon and sausage
• Big lunch out with BMG at a spot near the water
• Small dinner with copious amounts of wine as I geared up for the work week

During vegetarian week?

Toast, with butter for breakfast

Frozen bean and cheese burrito from Trader Joes for lunch (with an apple cider chaser)

Monstrous amounts of baked potato chips

Picked over onion rings from BMG's big lunch out with non-vegetarian friends

Big dinner - spinach, veggie sausage and whole wheat pasta. And copious amounts of wine as I geared up for the work week

Tuesday
On a normal work day?

• Toast with sliced turkey for breakfast
• An apple or grapes mid-day
• A chicken or beef burrito with guacamole from Boloco or Chipotle for lunch
• Dinner at home or out - likely grilled chicken with pasta or rice and a veggie

During vegetarian week?

• Fat free pumpkin muffin with apple butter for breakfast
• Grapes for a mid-day snack
• Teriyaki "burrito bowl" with tofu, broccoli and onions from Boloco for lunch
• Truffle fries and a veggie burger for lunch

Wine tasting dinner at our favorite Boston restaurant, Brasserie JO, on Wednesday?
On a normal day?

• Mounds of passed appies like mini Croque Monsieurs and foie gras sammies
• Veal and tomato bubble as an amuse bouche
• Seared scallops in a vanilla beurre blanch
• Frisee salad with poached quail egg
• Braised short ribs
• Interpreted beef Wellington with cremed potatoes
• Cheese course with poached pears, bleu pot de creme and tomato confit
• Pumpkin tart with burnt caramel ice cream
• Copious amounts of wine (and martinis) beautifully paired with each course

During vegetarian week?

• Mini martinis during the appie course
• Specially prepared tomato bubble as an amuse bouche (thanks Chef!)
• Frisee salad with poached quail egg
• Cauliflower steak with cremed potatoes
• Gnocchi with a delicious cilantro-esque pesto
• Cheese course with poached pears, bleu pot de creme and tomato confit
• Pumpkin tart with burnt caramel ice cream
• Copious amounts of wine (and martinis) beautifully paired with each course

Thursday and Friday proceeded much like Tuesday.

As I head into the weekend I'm confident I can live with two more days of this. I'm heading to a grocery store opening on Sunday, which is certain to be filled with tempting samples. But I'm certain http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifI'll be fine.

I'm also certain I'd like to go back to being an omnivore. I miss bacon, and my daily turkey toast for breakfast. If I felt healthier or less physically polluted I might consider moving to a more vegetarian diet. But I don't. During the last five days I've eaten the same amount of fat and salt as I do during the week. I've also eaten WAY more dairy, in the name of "getting protein," than I should.

It has been a good experiment. I hope I win the $250. And I'm ready for this to be done.

When I First Believed in God

I first believed in god after my initial glimpse of Yoesemite Valley from the road to Glacier Point in Yosemite National Park.

I was struck by the clarity with which I could see the power of glaciers that sheared off Half Dome, carved the valley to Mirror Lake and Tuolumne Meadows, and created water ways from the Sierras to locations like Vernal and Bridal Veil Falls. I know the geological mechanisms that continue to shape the topology of this National Park. I also felt the presence of something much larger than myself as I entered the park for a six-day car camping trip in 1999.

The last 24 hours in the Park I went backcountry camping through the the Wawona region, in the less traveled southern part of this national treasure. At the start of strenuous 8.2 mile hike, through endless switchbacks to the curvy Chilnualna Falls, I fell in love with the gorgeous ingenuity of the manzanita shrubs that covered the mountain side. At the end of the first day of hiking, tent pitched in a dry creek bed, I had the privilege of seeing the Northern lights, confused at first for white fuel-induced visions. The beauty of the earth and the sky, along with my own triumph at having accomplished the hike, only reinforced my sense of a power greater than that of any single species.

*****

The blog post was written in response to call for stories about the National Parks. Share your story with the National Parks Conservation Association.

Photo credits to The Cachegetter.

Princess MCKTP

My niece MCKTP is a six years old. She has a wide smile, shy talent, and refreshing curiosity and honesty about the world. She is also adopted, living with two (and White) dedicated moms, and is African American. My sister, one of her parents, is committed to raising a daughter who is confident, smart, and loves how she looks. Her home has a healthy dose of Black Barbie, stories featuring Black characters in positive and healthy roles, and art depicting African Americans in ordinary and appropriate scenes.

For whatever reason - maybe living in a predominantly Caucasian family in a mostly Caucasian neighborhood, and being raised in a culture where books, toys and TV shows featuring African Americans and other racial and ethnic minorities in supporting roles far more than in lead roles - MCKTP has expressed a kind of dislike for African Americans for most of her little life. "I must make made choices because all Brown people make bad choices," she declared conclusively to her parents one day. She distastefully pushed the African American American Girl Doll away when she received it for her birthday a few months ago, and she adores her blonde haired, blue eyed cousins.

On a recent visit to see my family my sister and the Divine Miss MCKTP were enjoying hot cocoa and conversation at a local bookstore. I was chatting with the little princess about the new Disney Princess, Tiana.
"Is she beautiful?" I asked.
"Yes, Auntie Clownface" she replied assertively, squirming in her seat as she absent-mindedly sipped her cocoa.
"What does she look like?" I prompted her. "You know I haven't seen the movie yet."
"Well she has a sparkly green dress, and..." MCKTP stopped in mid-sentence as a light bulb started to glow brightly over her braided head, "Hey, she looks like me! Does that mean I can be beautiful too?!"
I looked at my sister, who was grinning from ear to ear, fighting back tears of joy and relief. "Of course you can be beautiful too! You ARE beautiful MCKTP!"

*****

I'm smart with an overly developed empathic gene. I've read Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye several times, and the film version of The Color Purple brings me to heart shaking tears. It wasn't, however, until this brief conversation with my niece that I really understood the pervasive power of popular culture, no, of American culture in general, on African American identity. This beautiful girl who is only 6 years old and surrounded by a family who has loved her since birth, listened carefully to social cues and came to the misguided conclusion that she was ugly and bad. And something as seemingly simple as one movie, one schlocky Disney movie, helped my niece reach the tipping point in her articulation of her beauty.

Breaking the cycle

My mother lost her father to a heart attack when she was 14.
I lost my father to divorce when I was 14.
Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not?

My grandmother became a widow when she was 40.
I'm turning 40 this year. I'm so glad I'm not married because there is no way I can become a widow when I'm 40.

This is how I'm doing my part to break the cycle of family tragedy.

In Defense of Talking to Strangers

My mom broke her pinkie while she and I were visiting Martha's Vineyard this week. She slipped getting off a bus and, in her frantic effort to right herself, she torqued the pinkie on her left hand out of joint and broke it at the base.

We were in West Tisbury, en route to a connecting bus that would take us to Aquinnah and Gay Head, the most remote area of the island. We had no car. And my mom broke her finger. Sigh. Rather than getting back on the bus to a more populated part of the island (and an ER) we pushed forward and continued our journey. Our bus driver, alerted to the problem, flagged down a bike cop as we approached the stop at Gay Head and he met us with an ice pack for my mom's finger. We secured the pack to her hand using a white linen shirt I was wearing. We walked to the highest point at Gay Head, mom's hand looking rather claw-like, took a half-dozen pictures of Gay Head cliffs and Gay Head Light, and then parked ourselves at a picnic table to wait 45 minutes for the next bus out of there. (The picture at the top of the post is AFTER we had iced it for 30 minutes.)

The break was bad. Her pinkie was sticking out at a right angle from its base. Always a good bruiser, my mom takes blood thinners and the hematoma evolving in her palm was spectacular. It was 3:00 in the afternoon and we were three bus rides away from the ferry terminal and at least another 90 minutes from the mainland from there. And the ice pack was melting.

I left my mom at a picnic table and headed to a food vendor to get some more ice for her finger. Ahead of me was a woman in bike gear looking to buy a Gatorade. As we waited I asked about the biking conditions on the island and we chatted about road versus off-road biking. As the biker was being served she mentioned she also wanted a cup of ice. I chimed in that I wanted one too, for my mother's broken finger. The counter girl ruefully informed us she'd have to charge us $0.50 for the ice. I started to trot off to grab two quarters from my purse when the biker with whom I'd been chatting pressed a quarter into my hand. "For your mother," she said. When I returned to the counter with a second quarter to pay for my ice the biker was still there. As we continued to wait she said to me politely, "Is your mom going to be all right?" "She's being brave," I replied. "But the break looks pretty bad. We need to get off the island and get her to an emergency room."

Then the biker said something extraordinary. And this is why it is important to talk to strangers. She said, "My husband is an ER doctor. I'm sure he wouldn't mind looking at it." In wonderment, I fetched my mom and we met the ER doctor, fully outfitted in HIS bike gear. He affirmed the finger was broken, yanked it back into place and asked me to go ask a shop keeper for some tape, even cellophane tape, so he could affix the broken digit to its neighbor. My mother, go-getter she is, was already ahead of me, in the entrance of the nearest shack selling Wampanoag handicrafts. The artisan, upon hearing of the situation, pulled a first aid kit off a shelf, rifled through its contents and offered gauze for the cause. He also has a roll of masking tape, which was deemed a suitable substitute for the first aid tape missing from his kit. The ER doctor, using supplies in the first aid kit of the Native American crafts person, stabilized my mom's broker finger.



After my mom made it back to her home town she visited urgent care and learned her pinkie is indeed badly broken. And the ER doctor pulled it perfectly into place; no additional work was needed on it. She does need to have her hand guy take a look at it to follow up (she's had extensive hand surgery over the course of her young life), but for now she just needs to wait until it heals.

The well is dry

It strikes me that there is no such thing as a "typical" year in my chosen profession, education management. Last year circumstances of tragic proportions at the office kept everyone off track by more than six months. Finally back on our feet by September, I was hoping this year would be a "normal" year, when I could meet my goals, work on a handful of fun projects, and generally be a better colleague and community partner. And then a month later the bottom fell out of the market. The last six months - like the year before - has been a series of one enormous distraction after another as the senior team in my office (which includes me) struggles to keep the organizational ship moving forward in the face of enormous financial adversity. I have submitted more than $9 million in grant requests in the last three months alone in an effort to stem the tide of layoffs and operational derailment. All while maintaining my best calm, anxiety-free demeanor.

I am exhausted.

I am, I am Super Girl, and I can do anything

Thanks to NSBN for directing me to this silly online quiz from her blog.

Your results:
You are Supergirl

Supergirl 72% Superman 70% Wonder Woman 67% Spider-Man 65% Catwoman 60% Iron Man 60% Hulk 55% Green Lantern 50% Robin 40% Batman 35% The Flash 25%

Lean, muscular and feminine. Honest and a defender of the innocent.

Click here to take the Superhero Personality Test

Not something I can believe in

I'm watching Stonehenge Decoded on the National Geographic Channel (which I will NOT call Nat Geo because I think it is a stupid nickname they made up for themselves to sound hip). The program uses dramatized simulations to tell a story of Stonehenge. I'm currently watching a segment in which they are attempting to explain how each 45,000 ton stone was brought from the only place in modern times where the stones found, which is 25 miles from Stonehenge. (Why no one has imagined that maybe there were stones CLOSER to the site is beyond me...perhaps the landscape looked different 4,000 years ago?) The archaeologists are inferring that each stone is alleged to have deep spiritual meaning, and the process of bringing the stone part of a spiritual pilgrimage. While explaining this supposition, the narrator suggests that the supposed engineering process could have taken anywhere from months to YEARS to bring EACH stone to the site.

What a minute.

Maybe YEARS? To bring ONE stone? Out of an estimated 60 stones that made up Stonehenge in its hengey-hey day? So at least 60 years to just get the stones to the designated spot?

I'm not sure there is anything I believe in that much that I'd be willing to put that much physical labor into, for a payoff that I most likely would not benefit from. Maybe that is ego speaking, or laziness. But I cannot imagine living in a time where that would be considered a plum spiritual assignment. Give me Unitarian coffee hour duty any day. Coffee hour, that is something I CAN believe in.

Afro Can't

I'm a little behind the times with my knowledge of Japanese anime. I've just discovered Afro Ken, pictured here at right. Better late than never, says me, for I do believe I love this little puppy with his rainbow nappy locks. And I want him. And, as I was sharing my Afro Ken delights with my dear BMG, he said, "Don't you get it? Afro Ken = African. You can't get him, you can't buy an African!" I am now crestfallen.

Sigh. It is so hard being a liberal. Really, she said.

****

Speaking of the Japanese, here is a little gem retold by BMG today. "Do you think when Japanese people type LOL they actually type ROR? Raughing Out Roud?"

(I really am going to hell, for having repeated that in print.)

I *really* am a winner!

I just received a one-year National Parks pass in the mail, which I won in a sweepstakes sponsored by Yahoo.com in honor of Earth Day.

This is the perfect excuse for breaking out the frequent flier miles and making a trip.

Grand Canyon? BMG and I have already talked about making the trek.

Petrified Forest National Park, as long as we're in Arizona? Why not? Saguaro National Park? I can imagine making that happen while in the Grand Canyon State?
What is your favorite National Park? Where would YOU go if you were me?

I do need to note that it is a tiny bit ironic that a prize valued at $80 won in honor of Earth Day will now motivate me to spend excess time, money and carbon fuels to fly around the US taking advantage of this pass. This pass that will maybe save me $40 total over the course of the year. I also understand the point of the prize (and only 15 were awarded in the ENTIRE country) is to encourage people to visit National Parks with the knowledge that visiting park will either inspire or reinvigorate one's commitment to preserving (and dare I say it, expanding) our natural landscape. No matter. I'm a winner, and I'm pretty psyched.