Seeing Impermanence in Action...

My son turned 14 years old today. Birthday's are milestones we (as humans) set up in order to quantitatively measure age. And although I don't take much stock in human systems, I feel time slipping away as he grows older. My daughter is already eighteen years old. And now my son is fourteen. And it's cliche' to say it was just yesterday that I held my children in my arms, and danced with them across the floor as I nestled their small bodies against my chest. Days of Santa Claus, Easter Bunnies, and hunting for fairies in Luray Caverns are long gone. Games of hide and seek, and tickle-fests, and rides in a red wagon hunting for little gravel rocks to collect as "ammo" are obsolete.

The modern version of my son glides on skateboards, and leaps high on a BMX bike which he is way too tall for.  I'm 5'8" and he towers above me. Towers over his father. And my son loves every minute of it. And instead of little gravel rocks, my boy plays with air-soft guns and games online with others in "Modern Warfare."

He texts girls on his cellphone. Often. After they text him.

My son's pants always seem too short no matter how many new pairs we buy him. The bottom of the legs ride up beyond his ankles, and I wonder how many of his friend's parents have looked at him, and his pants, and said, "Can't his mother afford to buy him new clothes?" Which, at the rate he is growing...no I can't.

I never knew motherhood could be so complex. The feelings, the worries, the number of things in the world a parent has to constantly keep up with...  I never knew it could be so joyful, and so (ultimately) rewarding. And it's odd, because I stare at this young man in my house, and still get flashes of the time he jumped off the diving board when he was five, and could barely swim, and landed with a solid belly flop only to come up sputtering and ask to do it again. And those flashes cause an odd mix of pleasure and pain like that little jolt of electricity that bites you when you accidentally get shocked from an errant wall socket. Part of you wants to move on and not do it again, but another part of you wants to try it just one more time...

And as my son sleeps this morning, (probably until noon because he more than likely stayed up until two A.M. playing "Modern Warfare" with his friends), I can't help but wonder what tomorrow will bring? Will he stay healthy? Will he grow much taller? What will he decide to become in the future? And when will he bring his first girlfriend (or boyfriend) home to meet me?

Oh, I know worrying about the future is as useless as wishing I could change the past, but I wonder more than I worry. I wonder, and I pray with all the energy I have that each day for him is a better one, and that his mistakes are few but result in a developing awareness and kind understanding toward himself. I pray that my son learns something useful each moment he treads the path of life, and that he values humanity, love and the joy of giving.  There are so many things I wish for him. So much I would give if I could, but the greatest gift of all that I can hand to him is that of gently guiding him to the person he was meant to be. A person who I am sure will make a difference in this world, and a good one at that.

A Visit to Scary Dairy...

Scary Dairy

            Scary Dairy is located near University Drive in Camarillo, California, near the California State University of Channel Islands.  It’s in an odd hilly region near the ocean and close to Point Mugu Navy Base, and surrounded by some agricultural fields on one side. There are no main buildings in sight, and the area is devoid of anything that appears urban.
            The place is located near what was once the Camarillo State Hospital, a mental institution and it was supposedly a dairy farm and/or a slaughter house. After the place burned down a few years ago, it was renamed “Scary Dairy” by the locals. It’s rumored that a number of murders occurred on the grounds, but now it seems to be more like a place for University plebes and graffiti artists to hang out.

            I traveled there Saturday morning (September 17th) with my daughter. It was my second attempt to find the place. Luckily, on our first pass near the main University road, there was a gate that was open which I hadn’t noticed before.  We turned down the dirt road, and passed a group of people flying model planes and helicopters at the Model Airplane Landing Strip, then rounded a bend of trees, and there stood a dilapidated barn and a low white structure just beyond that.

            It probably didn’t help that we visited during daylight hours, although the sky was gray and overcast, but the place didn’t seem very scary. It had more of an artistic feel to it.  The falling, rotting barn was missing several metal panels, but on almost every bit of wood and aluminum sheeting still attached to the frame, there were a number of interesting pieces of graffiti artwork.

            When we traveled into the main building, large holes in the walls and burnt wooden beams above made the place just a bit eerie. There were concrete troughs, such as those that might have been used for feeding cattle. I imagine if I’d been out there alone at night I might have found the experience quite unsettling, but my daughter and I took pictures and talked with a photographer that was there taking shots of the building. It was obvious from some of the artwork that local fraternities and sororities used this place occasionally, but as I looked out on the strangely vacant hills that surrounded the structure I could only imagine what types of nefarious activities might have once occurred here. I've added some pics below for you to get a feel of the place.

“The purpose of learning is growth, and our minds, unlike our bodies,

can continue growing as long as we live.”

~Mortimer J. Adler

Well, Adler obviously didn't know me.  My body continues to grow.  Sometimes out, and sometimes in ink.  

Yesterday was my daughter's 18th birthday and together we went to get Mom and Daughter ink at "High Class Tattoo" (A little shop just above the Biker Bail Bonds suite). We even prayed over the ink before the artists began!

Kira's tattoo took just under two hours, and mine took a little over two, or one "G.I. Jane" flick, from beginning to end. What a great day!

"One of the greatest things about the sport of surfing is that you need only three things:

your body, a surf-board, and a wave."

~Naima Green

This past weekend was precious. My son, for a change, didn't have the plethora of friends over to visit and "game" on the PS3. In his lonliness, and perhaps (I hope) in his desire to spend time with "Mom", he joined me in surfing. It was the BEST weekend for catching waves. A southern swell was coming through, and the gusty winds of summer had fizzled down to a gentle breeze. The water was clear and glassy, and the waves were perfect for medium sized boards and folks who just wanted to play and have fun.

My son, true to his word, got up out of bed before his normal noon rise and climbed into the van with me to head out to Mondos. The beach was packed with early-bird surfers, and vacationing families, and finding a place to park was challenging. We pulled the van up to a spot, a quarter mile from the rocky coastal entrance, and got out to pull on our wetsuits. Sean's summer growth meant he was tall and lean, so his wetsuit fit around him but the ankle portion which once came down to his feet, now rose high above his ankles...a funny sight to see. And bittersweet.

We grabbed our boards, and hiked to the sand, and in moments we were paddling out to the curling water.  There was a time when paddling was difficult for him, and when the sight of a four foot wave coming towards him made him feel anxious. No more. This time he paddled past me, flashing by like a dolphin, and we pushed past the breakers where the waves pounded and foamed to the stillness of the sea.  We waited a few minutes, our eyes on the horizon, then the sets started coming. Taking time to choose the best of the oncoming water, we spun our boards towards shore paddling like maniacs and enjoyed the feel of the ocean lifting us, carrying us, side by side. So many waves!  We rode together and fell together and tumbled in the swirl of Mother Natures fluids. Laughing, snorting saltwater, tangled in seaweed, or hanging on for dear life as the white water thundered and took us towards shore, we LIVED life those hours. Present moment.

Near noon, cold and hungry, we returned to the van and rinsed off with the jug of warm water I'd brought. Afternoons were lazy as I read and did homework while he 'gamed' on the Internet, and then near dusk we went to the park and skateboarded. I'd just bought a "Kahuna board", a long skateboard where the rider pushes with a stick to keep momentum, and he taught me the nuances of skateboarding with it. Over a mile we skated, Saturday and Sunday, and the evening return to home was filled with rock music and 'cruising' down the street with windows open and music pumping base so hard the doors shuddered. I was a kid again...a big kid with my son.

I've made a deliberate imprint of this memory on my brain. This precious time before other girls take over his life. This time of laughter, and gangly innocence. The weekend is over, but I will remember that he enjoyed the company of his aging Mom, enjoyed sharing the water, and teaching me to roll over concrete as easily as we surfed waves. I will remember we laughed. Oh, how we laughed. And played. And together, we were young.

"Change is inevitable...

...except from a vending machine."

~Robert C. Gallagher

There was a time when my children were so little. Their young faces looked up at me with trust, and love, and I was the all knowing, magical mother who could do anything. My wise words were gospel, and my children clung to me each day like sailors clinging to a ship in a storm.

Now, I have an 'almost 18' year old daughter, and a 13 year old son. My daughter literally looks me in the eye and speaks to me like an equal, and this year my son has grown so tall he now looks down at me and debates issues with me. When did THIS happen?

Wasn't it only yesterday that my daughter lost her binky, and I searched (frantically) to find it while she cried inconsolable tears? Wasn't it only yesterday that my son drank warm milk from my breast, and snuggled into my chest to be safe and warm? Only a parent can be keenly aware of the impermanence of all things by watching their children grow. Its a fact that all things change, and the reality of it strikes the heart of every parent that sees their child each and every day, and notices something that day is different.

Today, I took my son surfing. He's not really gaga about going into the cold ocean, but he went today so he could be with me. He warmed my heart, taking time out from his video games to come and play with me. The Pacific ocean, on the other hand, is a cruel maternal expanse that never seems to warm no matter how bright the sun shines. Her waters are a shivering bath for any human who flocks to her shores.  If it weren't for wet-suits, I surely wouldn't brave it. But the armor of full body neoprene gives me courage, and cold or  not, I love the ocean. I love to surf.

Sean and I donned the wet suits. He took my 'banana board', a  yellow 8'2", and I grabbed Kira's 'Robert August', a narrow red striped 8'6" board, and we jumped into the water at Mondos this afternoon.  The waves were perfect size. Three to four feet max, and there was only a little current and almost no wind. An ideal day for surfing. At first, Sean was intimidated at how big the waves looked, but after his first couple of rides, his self assurance took over. I saw him smile, and he grinned even bigger when he realized he could paddle out faster than I could take my heavy butt out to the waves on my board. We surfed a good hour and a half, and when I got tired and he got cold, we headed to shore and back to the van.

As we removed our wetsuits, my eyes kept drifting down to view the tufts of hair that have formed underneath his arms. Thick patches now grew there, when only a year ago I swear they were bare. Where did my little boy go? I wondered. Yes, he was still my son, but now he towered over me, and his body hair was prominent. His voice had dropped at least 2 octaves lower, and I no longer confused him with my daughters voice on the telephone. We packed up the wetsuits and rinsed off with the hot water I'd brought in a jug, got dressed and then headed home.

In order to feel like a Mom once again, I stopped at GameStop to pick up a game he'd been wanting for a while. Infamous 2.  A pretty awesome game with fantastic graphics.  Yes, it was probably a total overspend, but the super-D-duper pack was on sale and I forked out $60.00 just to feel maternal again. Isn't that sad? I relished the smile on my son's face, and for a brief moment was taken back to Christmas mornings when he would come in to the living room and look at the Christmas tree with wonder in his eyes. I almost cried when I thought of it.

I had to get back to the house in time to eat and then have my daughter take me to a Pilates class. She'd been wanting to share her favorite class with me for a while. Even though I'm supposed to be studying for my dissertation defense tomorrow, I geared up in my stretchy pants and my daughter drove me to the exercise studio. When did my daughter start driving? I pondered how it all had happened so fast. One day I'm taking her to a friends house, or dropping her off so she and her friend can go shopping at a nearby mall, and the next day she's driving me all over town. I'm still shaking my head as I write this, remembering how we discussed life choices in the kitchen the other day, and debated over philosophies of life and karma. My daughter. Talking to me about life, and philosophy. Graduated from High School. Starting college this year.

Change IS inevitable, but its never struck me so hard, never knocked me on my butt so squarely as when I take time to look at my children and realize their almost all grown. They are their own little people now, making their own choices, fumbling with relationships, learning from mistakes (I hope) and seldom needing me to make things right. Yet, at the end of the day, they still kiss me and hug me so tightly that there is no doubt in my mind the great love they have for me. And the trust. And I still can't help but fall asleep with a misty tear filling at least one eye when I think of it. Change is tough, but it is wonderful.  I might as well embrace it, and try not to waste each precious moment that comes my way. Like the Borg, resistance is futile.

~Cin

There is freedom...

...in a wave.

Yesterday, I went surfing with my son. Despite my new back troubles and pain, I braved the boards and got in to the van with my hubby and my son, and went to Mondos. I couldn't stay out of the water one more day.

It was an absolutely perfect day to surf. The sky was turquoise, and the water was glassy.  A slight off shore wind let the waves curl just a little.

Sean borrowed Jim's wet suit, and Jim sat out on the beach, while we both went in the water and enjoyed a few waves.

Funny thing, success and motivation.  At first, Sean didn't want to surf, feeling like he was never going to catch a wave. He told me 'surfing just wasn't his thing', and that he was planning on going back in to the beach and getting the boggie board, "...because I'm better at that." he said. Thankfully, a nice and slightly powerful set of waves came in and using my yellow AIPA 8'2" banana board Sean caught a beautiful wave and rode it in almost all the way to the beach.

"So you're ready to go in now?" I asked him, hoping I knew what his answer would be.  He looked at me and smiled.  "I think I'll stay out here for a while." His grin got wider.  I could tell he'd felt a thrill riding that wave.  That was when I did the "mommy dance" (on the inside of course), and almost cried from happiness. I think maybe every parent wants their kids to find some joy in something they love.  Even if it's just the joy of being together.

There are all kinds of freedoms in the world, but the best kind for me yesterday was on a wave. Sharing it with my son, and watching him smile. It's a moment that isn't permanent, but will have a lasting effect on me forever.

Be a Star...

Farmer...

"Every atom in our bodies was once part of a star." (Gattaca)

I saw a Star in person today.  She walked down the Graduation aile of Ventura High School's Senior Class of 2011, and as she walked, the effervescent light she gave off was as blinding to my eyes as if I'd stared at the sun.  My oldest, and my one and only daughter, graduated on this date, inside this time continuum of this particular dimension, and it was oh so sweet. So, Bitter-Sweet.

Almost (not quite) 18 years ago, the child that is now an adult passed through the gateway of my tender womanhood, passed by the shaky monuments of my trembling knees, was lifted up into my arms and became her own human being.  And with every moment of her birth I literally prayed (in between the fevered curses that she would hurry the hell out of me)... for her life-long happiness.  I even bargained with the Gods, the Buddha's, the Spirits and whatever power that may be greater than me, that any negative karma this child might have, would bypass her and stick to me. I prayed that I be allowed to take on the debt of her lifetimes, and I happily offered myself to taking it ALL.   I secretly begged for the life of my dearest daughter to be filled with Grace, to be imbued with Hope, to be infused with joyful Laughter, and I prayed that she know the ultimate soul-encompassing meaning of Love.

And, you know what?  So far (for the most part) every prayer has come true.

It was a selfish bargain really.  I mean, seriously, what parent does not want their child to succeed?  What Mother does not want to see her daughter leap up like an offshoot of her own fertile self and witness that her child has sprouted spectacular sunflowers of success surpassing the original plant of her own being?

I am no different than the sea of parents that stood up and clapped at graduation, proud of their child and proud of their accomplishments...because in some small way, those accomplishments are my accomplishments too.  Because in some small way, we (my husband and I) helped it all to happen.  And it is, altogether, an amazing feat.  An amazing journey.  It is a spectacular event to behold.  And as much as I am proud of my daughter, I find I am humbled before the Miracle of Life beyond measure. I am struck to my knees to be a part of it.

Now, my dearest daughter is out partying at Grad Night, and I sit on my front porch typing this note while sipping on a bit of Glinfiddich, and smoking a Cuba Libre (definitely a favorite) and I wonder what my daughter's life will be like as she steps into the world of Adulthood.  I don't think High School really prepares anyone for that.  At least not yet.

The childhood bliss of Senior Prom and Monday Mornings at School after the Facebook gossip of the weekends, the small Political battles between Rivals and the Music of High School plays...these things don't quite prepare a young adult for the Piranha soup that stews in the world, threatening to gobble up one's soul with the least miscalculation.  I tremble in both fear, and in weird anticipation, to watch it all happen (a curious spectator, me)...and I hope...yes, I HOPE, that she will emerge from the feeding frenzy, not only unscathed, but impervious to the teeth.  I HOPE and I pray, she will wear the armor of her life, her love, and her creativity as boldly as the best knights on the battlefield, and that she will leave that field proud...head held high, knowing she truly lived a life that was the best it could be lived.  And that she lived it with LOVE.  That is what I hope.  It is a simple request in words, yet it is a huge thing to hope in reality.

And as my mind, heart and soul contemplate this, I turn my eyes towards my beautiful and radiant son, who at only 13 years, has watched his sister grow, and who has also (unknowingly) soaked up the very same prayers from his watching Mother.  He doesn't know it, but I hope the very same things for him too.  I hope for him.  I pray for him.  And I wait with each passing day for those invocations to the heavens to come true. 

I have never cared at what cost to my self, their happiness.  No price is too high a price to pay for their joy.  No mountain of burden is too great to bear if it means they can fight the fires of the world and emerge unscathed.  Not because they are me, or even a small part of me.  But because they have, in their own turn, taught me how to Love.

~Cin

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig...

I first heard this bit of nursery rhyme on the 1982 Sci-Fi movie "Blade Runner" with Harrison Ford, and Darryl Hannah, believe it or not.  The words are probably the sum statement of my travels to and fro...whatever a "fro" is.

Just after noontime, the Lufthansa plane I'd spent 12 intimate hours inside  (high-five I got an aisle seat this time) pulled in to LAX.  I had the incredible luxury of finally being able to turn on my Blackberry and text my husband that I was there.  What a gargantuan freedom!!  I hadn't been able to use the cell phone the entire time I was in Germany and in Afghanistan/Kuwait.  Jim and I hadn't figured out how to turn on the International calling program, and weren't quite sure about the cost.  I wasn't even sure I could use my program in Afghanistan. "Roshan" is the service there, and I don't think they've been officially introduced to AT&T.

Our plane taxied what I was sure the entire span of the city of Los Angeles, and finally arrived at a designated parking space. Once the polite little "ding" of the plane hit the air waves, officially signaling that passengers could unbuckle and get up out of their seats (always reminds me of the Kentucky Derby), the fight for survival was on.  I was pushed down the aisle (I was already standing up, trying to let my fellow seat mates out to get their carry on's) and struck in the head with several luggage bags in wild attempts for people to hurry and get their carry-on bags out of the overheads so they could wait 10 minutes before they could disembark the plane.

After de-planing, I made it through a wide network of corridors, and airport alleyways, that sent me on a journey to finally arrive at a counter and have my passport stamped.  On this excursion, exactly two people bumped me out of the way with nary an "excuse me" (Yep, 'nary' is a word. Use it in your next scrabble game for points), and while waiting at baggage claim I was jostled, pushed, nudged, budged, riffled, ruffled, and trompled...(OK... you caught me...trompled is not a word, but it should be.  It fits better than trampled and sounds right), and I think (at least one person) even groped me for a second.  But that could have just been wishful thinking.

The pandemonium that ensues in Baggage Claim gives a person real insight into the dark side of humanity, especially at the International baggage claim where 'culture' has very little foothold.  Many people from many countries, few commonalities, and each individual highly concerned with their own personal agenda.  Very little concern for others. It's like an episode of "Survivor" every time.

I seriously think if a shooter had come in while we were getting our bags, and had begun shooting wildly with an AK-47 while tossing out a couple of frag grenades, most folks would continue to hurriedly get their bags, maybe turn on their i-phone cameras to capture the event on video for You-Tube, and then run quickly away using their Smart-Carts as super shields, hoping they could make it through the second Customs counter before anyone else.  For many, the shooting may have even been considered a pleasant diversion, in order to be the first ones out of the gates.

Make no mistake...leaving the airplane, and getting to the baggage carrousel, not to mention getting through Customs, is really all about being FIRST.  I've seen the worst come out in people during these events, and believe me the worst is not pretty to behold.  I guess spending over 12 hours on a plane sitting next to a toddler and a crying baby will do that to folks, but I've also seen the same behavior raise its ugly head on flights that are less than two hours.  So what's the excuse?  I don't profess to know.  I do know that when I'm not extremely exhausted, I find the behavior highly entertaining.  This time around, I wasn't entertained.  Just battered and bruised, and ready to be 'voted off the island'.

My wonderful hubby was waiting for me when I emerged from the mayhem of the air travel odyssey, and it was really great to see him and get a REAL hug.  Traveling among strangers for over three weeks, there is very little genuine human contact, and certainly none with those who really love you (the groping really doesn't count).  It can be more than a little lonesome when you're on the road.

Traffic was quite congested riding home in the car, along the beach-line on the *1, but Jim finally negotiated the Toyota Camry back to our house in Ventura,... back to a fantastic welcome from my 13 year old son, who'd drawn and colored a lovely "Welcome Home" sign on several sheets of copy paper (complete with a picture drawing of an owl), and hung them on the wall, and... (this was cute) ...he had a bottle of wine and a glass ready for me in case I needed it. (I didn't.  All the traveling had actually made me quite nauseous.) What a wonderful hug I received from my young man, who is (I hate to say it) as tall if not taller than me now.  Jim maintains that he thinks Sean is as tall as him.  I'm fighting against the possibility of it.

After watching Sean play some "Infamous" on PlayStation (cool game, really), I went upstairs and took a nap, and awoke to my dearest daughter hugging me, with tears running down her face.

Climbing out of the depths of my slumber, I turned and mumbled to her, "What's wrong, Baby?"  She broke her mother's heart when she just said, "I missed you so much, Mommy."  My maternal coronary muscles just twisted in pain with her sobs, and I held my 17 year old baby girl (who is graduating high school this year) as closely as I did the first day she came out of my womb.  I never knew motherhood could be like this.  I never knew what it would be like to be loved, to be missed.  The magnitude of it is really overwhelming sometimes.  The emotion of it chokes me so hard I can barely breathe when I deeply consider it.  But regardless...it is good.  Incredibly, wonderfully...good.  And beyond scary, to be a parent.

I'd wanted to get back up later and watch movies with the kids, but the jet lag won out over my tired corpuscles and muscles, and I stayed asleep for a few more hours.  Till about 3AM, when my internal alarm clock woke me and forced me downstairs to work on the computer.

I was working on my Dr Stench novel, and editing some blogs I haven't released yet from my travels, when I heard the garage door open.  The dogs were going crazy barking, and I knew the internal household was all accounted for, so who was opening the garage?  I thought the situation was weird, but I didn't hear that creepy music playing in the background...like in horror films when you know the stupid person is going to get it... so I figured it was safe, and opened the door.  The garage door was wide open, the overhead light was on, and the driver door to the Camry was wide open as well.  Giving the garage a scrutinizing look around, to make sure no one was hiding there, I walked over to the car (which is partially in the dark) pushed shut the driver's door (I didn't take time to look inside) and then went back to the garage, shut the door and locked it.

About thirty minutes later, the whole thing was bugging me so much, I called the police and then went on line to fill out a police report of the incident.  I got Jim out of bed to go check the car to see if anything was missing.  Sure enough someone had burgled the inside (Jim had forgot to lock the car), and took two pair of reading glasses (I thought that was odd, I mean...they were ugly glasses) an i-Pod charger, and an i-Pod audio cable.  (The robber didn't take the GPS, which led me to think s/he was clairvoyant, because the damn thing never seems to get us where we want to go anyway.)

The burgling person only took small things to sell, I guess, and either deliberately thought s/he would try the garage door to see what was there, or accidentally hit the door opener, which makes a lot of noise, turns on the lights and triggers the dogs to go all "Cujo".

Jim told me the neighbors recently had their vehicle broken in to, too.  I guess with the economy so bad, some folks are looking for any opportunity to steal and sell what they can for money.  So, folks, remember to lock your shit up.  Locks, for the most part, keep honest people honest, and thieves will sell their wares to anyone in heaven or hell.  It doesn't matter who buys, so long as the color of the cash is right.  Which comes to the end of the rhyme and this story...

"To market, to market, to buy a plum bun,

Home again, home again, market is done."

And, yes, despite the hassles and the vehicle burglary, it is really REALLY good to be home.

~Cin

End of Days...

Well Folks,

It is now May 22nd, and unless I missed something I'm still around and so (hopefully) are you.

I may have slipped through a dimensional time warp while on the airplane from LA to Frankfurt, but if I did I have no recollection of it.  Suffice to say that the "Judgement Day" predicted by Mr Harold Camping didn't occur on time.  No earthquakes occurred of significant value while I was in the air, and mankind (All 7,113,760,400.00  of us at the time of this writing) is still happily polluting the earth and living life in the blissful ignorance that nothing s/he does makes THAT much of an impact on earth. Ah well.  Perhaps the end will be near another day.  2012 is coming, and maybe the Mayans will deliver.

Despite all of the worries about the end of the world, I have more pressing concerns...like the present moment, and reflections of the recent past, which I like to review from time to time.

I left my home yesterday (my hubby graciously drove me to the International Airport in LA), and boarded the German airline Lufthansa, bound for Frankfurt and then Nuremberg. The destination for this part of the trip being a small U.S. Army base on Vilseck.  Now, interestingly on Lufthansa, all drinks are free including the beer, the cognac and the wine.  Quite a few Germans were imbibing before meals, with meals and after meals and most of the people on board were either sleeping or very happy.  German Flight Attendants (I almost typed Stewardess cause, yes, that's my generation) were an interesting lot.  To provide some comparison, Japanese Flight Attendants are generally very quiet, gentle, and subtlety persuasive when they need or want you to do something.  You hardly know they are there.  German Flight Attendants bustle through the airplane cabin with a large noisy presence.  They are loud when they address you, and phrases emitted from them are more like orders that you dare not disobey for fear of some type of reprisal, such as withholding your pretzel ration, or skipping you when they go down the aisle with the drink cart.

Ten hours on a plane can be hell.  Particularly when you are trapped (such as I was) between an overweight older Hungarian/American (who I shall call Hugo) and a tiny slip of an American/Eastern Indian looking woman from San Diego who was 28 weeks pregnant.  Yes, the pregnant girl had a seat next to the window, and Hugo was on the aisle side.  Needless to say, the 28 week pregnant girl had to get up every couple of hours to urinate (sometimes more frequent), and when she did...as Hugo and I waited for her return...I was pelted with stories from the Hungarian/American about how he first came to the U.S. in 1969 after being in refuge camps in Austria.  (I didn't get exact details of how he came to be there, amazingly...) Hugo described his first American job, cleaning toilets.  Later, cleaning for a rich family.  After that, a construction job, and then he went on to join in with another group of individuals for an architectural company and had just recently retired with his wife (his second wife, who is Filipino) with a two million dollar pension.  I was privy to listening about their amazing adventures around the world, and got to see his passport, which he proudly displayed to me with extra stamped pages (48 to be exact) because he'd been such an extensive traveler (He was very proud of it). Hugo explained to me he was getting old and tired now though, and that his traveling will soon be limited to his trips with his wife to Las Vegas, something he and his wife do regularly.  "You can live good in Las Vegas," he said.  "Eat good. Good Entertainment.  It's the life."

Prego girl, whose descriptive name I shall shorten to "Pregs", was anxious about childbirth.  She was amazed, when we first met, because I looked at her belly and said "28 weeks".  "How did you know? I'm exactly 28 weeks." she said.

"I'm clairvoyant." I replied.  The look on her face was priceless as awe filled her eyes.  For a moment, I was living proof that the third eye existed.  I wish it were true.  Coming clean,  I confessed....  "No, really, I'm a midwife.  I've seen several pregnant women, and it was just a guess."

A strange mixture of both disappointment and pleasure filled her face.  Glad to be riding alongside a midwife, but disappointed that I probably couldn't tell her baby's future along the way...she waddled next to the window with an armload of baby magazines.  "I'm in nursing school." she said. "And I haven't had time to read about babies at all."  Up towards the front row, a mother tried to console a 9 month old as she wailed, screamed and cried during the ride (the baby, not the mother).  I nodded my head in the woman's direction.  Pregs looked that way and then looked quizically at me. 
"That's all you need to know." I said.

Yes, I have a habit of being more than less than unhelpful in a pinch, and more helpful than some people deserve when not in need, but still...it made the flight go by faster.  Pregs was from San Diego, and flying to Salzberg Germany to see family before coming back to have the baby in the U.S.. She was two years away from finishing her nursing degree, and wasn't sure what she wanted to do after that.  I listened to her talk about things she wanted to buy for the baby, looked at some of the magazines with her, and on occasion thought perhaps the rapture had happened, and that this was my life of hell on earth for the next five months before 'the end'.  Then, miraculously, both Pregs and Hugo fell asleep, and I (sandwiched in between them) had a couple hours of bliss (and a cognac) while I listened to Joe Hills "Horns" novel on audiobook, and wrote a little more of "Dr Stench" for my novel.
One thing is for certain, when the plane eventually touched down on the Germany ground, I heard angels sing.

The Frankfurt terminal was a very odd place.  Disembarking the plane, there is really no one to tell you where to go, or how to get there.  I wandered from terminal A, trying to get to terminal B, in a massive labyrinth of gates, walls, corridors and such.  Eventually I ended up at the gateway to terminal B, and found that it was another customs check/search.  I showed my passport exactly 3 extra times, was searched in a "security room" because I had extra electronics (which were, apparently, very suspicious), and my computer equipment was tested for ballistics residue, and with that I FINALLY made it to terminal B.  My flight to Nuremberg was a little less hectic, and I arrived at the terminal finding someone who was holding up a little paper sign that said "Dr Cynthia F."  I almost missed him and it, because the name on the paper was barely legible.

A 45 minute ride in a faded blue van, along some beautiful German countryside, with houses that have roofs as sharp as freshly ground number 2 pencil points, and I was at Vilseck.  Needless to say, after not really having slept more than a couple of hours in more than a 14 hour trip, I was giddy and not very lucid as I made my way to my little room.  It was 3 PM in Germany, and I threw my things on the floor and climbed into the bed after quickly typing a note to my family to let them know I'd arrived OK.  I slept from 3PM to 5AM the next day.

Now, I'm here at Vilseck as an Expert Witness for the Defense on a sexual assault case.  Later this afternoon, I will go over the case with Army JAG and they will determine how I can provide the best information possible for the courtroom.  As an expert for the Defense, one of my roles is to make sure that statements provided from the Prosecution expert/examiner (from the medical side) are 'evidence based', meaning they are grounded in the researched science of today.  It is a rewarding process, because now and then, I'm able to help dispel myths and set the record straight so the courtroom can make a logical decision.

Despite being north of towns like Munich and Stuttgart, I was unprepared for how warm the weather would be here.  It's sunnier than I expected, with huge cotton-ball white clouds and occasional black thunder heads that sneak in and dump a pound of rain on your head and then move off to splatter gallons of water elsewhere.  I don't know if I'll have time to go out into town and see any sights.  The courtroom process can be a long one, and usually I need to sit through each of the testimonies in order to provide any thoughts about the medical portion of the case.  But perhaps I will have the opportunity to see the countryside.  We will see.

~Cin

Sitting at the Wheel and Heartbreak...

Describes a good part of my day today.  As for now, my bags are packed, and I'm ready to go.  Leaving on the jet plane bound for Europe for a week long stay and then two weeks in the Middle East.

The morning started out with one of the best things in the world...sleeping just a little later than usual.  (I'd taken leave today so I could rest and relax, and take my time packing.)  Jim had promised me a massage today, and so after some breakfast and homework...I basked in the luxury of an hour massage and some much needed snuggle time.  I hadn't had a massage in ages, and my skin, muscles, joints and sinews were appreciative of the therapy.

After a short nap, it was off to Fantastic Sams to get a hair cut.  I'd had a cut and color done only two weeks ago, but hadn't been satisfied with the cut I got.  Interesting to note that the first salon I went to just days ago charged me $120.00 to color (highlight) and cut my hair, and Fantastic Sams charged me $15.00.  After many a trial and tribulation trying to find the right hairdresser in Ventura, to do what I want for my hair, I finally found someone to do it.  Mabel, a brusque Caucasian orange haired woman, is almost 65 years old, and her hairdresser compadres have been around Ventura all of their lives. When I walked in to the salon, I had the instant feeling of "down home" and "no nonsense" that I'd grown up with much of my life.  It was like walking into the hills of West Virginia and sitting down with many of the plain spoken folk I'd met and learned to know there.  No comment is taboo, as long as its the truth.

My cut and color at the fancy salon took me almost two hours.  Mabel was literally done in 10 minutes.  My hair was as close as it could be to the picture I carted in with me in the hopes I'd get lucky this time.  I laughed for the first time I can remember, while getting my hair done, as their plain conversation was filled with joy, mirth and a joke now and then...and I left knowing I would definitely come back.  No foo-foo.  No frills.  Just a nice simple cut, like the picture I brought, and I was done and out the door ready for the next day's evolution.

After Sean got home from school and Jim returned from his physical therapy appointment, we went to a small art show at Ventura Harbor.  One of the artist sections included a pottery guild, and outside of the guild store sat an older woman named Yevette. Yevette lives in Ojai, and not only makes pottery, but spins yarn and raises llamas.  She took Sean by the hand and led him in his first lesson of making a cup on the pottery wheel.  (I sooo felt nostalgia when she talked about her wheel, and my fingers were itching to spin fibers!)  Sean attacked learning the potter's wheel with gusto, and under the guidance of Yevette, created a lovely shaped tea cup out of porcelain clay.  His first one, and it was beautiful!  It was such a joy to watch him work with the clay, smooth it, bring the edges up, create the collar then finally remove it from the wheel.  Sean is good with his hands when he wants to be. He loves wood working, and tinkering with things.  He's built his own foam swords and shields in the past, and has done a variety of other creative things, but I was so proud he did well today with the clay.

Kira called to say she couldn't make it to dinner.  She was meeting with her soon to be ex-boyfriend.  He's a wonderful young man, but Kira and he are both going separate ways for a while, and my very grown daughter sat down and talked to him about it.  It was tough on her, and tough on him, and when I talked to her afterwards on the phone I could tell the whole thing really bummed her out.  Heartache.  Making those difficult choices.  Trying to do the right thing.  I knew it was hard, but in the end I'm proud of her.  She made sure she approached the situation carefully, and made sure she was honest about it.  Her former boyfriend loves travel, and rock climbing and is the sweetest, most thoughtful and kind individual, but he will be traveling the summer, and then living in Santa Cruz this fall.  Kira will be here, studying Wellness courses and attending more massage courses so she can get her National Certification.  I've never been prouder of my dearest daughter, to make the adult decisions, to stand up and be honest about her choices.

After Jim, Sean and I got home, we went out together, just her and I, and ate frozen yogurt at the Wild Cherry.  We talked and shared things that mothers and daughters do, and I felt nostalgia and sadness wash over me as I realized tomorrow I'd be traveling away...away from my family.  The ones that I love.  Off to serve my country in the ways that I know how, and can contribute the best.  I'll hate not being home...not being with them.  But every moment, I will love them, and love who they are.

As the evening draws to a close, I sit on the front porch (it's actually just after midnight) lightly puffing on a Nico Libre, and mentally checking off the items I've packed in my sea-bag.  Tomorrow ( or really today) is another day, and I pray.  I pray that my family stays safe, that each of my planes take off and land as they should, and that time will speed along quickly until I'm in their arms once again.

~Cin

Attention to Detail

Well All,

I've survived the Joint Commission "survey" (really known as 'inspection', and even the surveyor/inspector called it an inspection).  It was probably a less painful experience for me than for some clinics/personnel in the past.  Oddly, I learned a lot.  The opportunity to go through the clinic with a fresh set of eyes looking at the nuances of everything surrounding me helped me to recognize the little things most people don't pay attention to.  Despite all my previous angst, I found the process very useful.  The key, I think, was the inspector himself.  The fellow who came out was very approachable, and while he asked a lot of questions he was willing to answer many of them too.  And he was willing to teach.  This made a world of difference in the experience of the process.  The worst of it was standing on my feet for a couple of hours while he walked through the clinic, from room to room, opening drawers, talking to staff, etc. (I could physically feel my feet swelling with every passing minute...ah the joys of age...)  I, as his "escort", had to make sure I was with him wherever he went.

In the end, I was pleased that he had such favorable things to say about our military staff.  Most of them are very junior, but I was proud at how professional they were.  They took time to answer his questions.  These young Hospital Corpsmen (early 20's) were not nervous, or flustered.  They approached the task of answering his questions like they were teaching someone about the clinic and their daily duties.  They truly are a fine group of military, and I would be proud to serve with them anywhere in the world.

I imagine many people approach writing a blog as an avenue to vent or complain about society and the difficulties of day to day living, and I admit I do that also from time to time.  But today, I only find myself happy and grateful.  Happy to work alongside some of the finest our United States Military has to offer and grateful to work for an Officer in Charge (OIC) that I've come to admire and consider a mentor.  I think I will grieve some when the leadership changes hands, but I should remind myself to always give the next person a chance, just like I myself would want to be given one.  Still, it is hard to accept change when things seem to be working so well.  I will embrace it though, and go once more into the breech...

I will be traveling soon on a temporary assignment, and so I took the day off to rest/recover from the inspections and other evolutions that had taken over my life.  The Dissertation Proposal is submitted once more with all of its corrections and additions and I'm editing my presentation for the dissertation board and my IRB proposal application to reflect those changes so I can have them done before I go.  The International Association of Forensic Nurses (IAFN) would like me to speak at their conference in Montreal in October, and so I've submitted my request and presentation proposal through the chain of command and hope I'll have approval to do it.  It will highlight my research while on deployment last year, and hopefully I'll have my findings completed by then.

Today was also a day to network and enjoy the company of a friend.  A fellow forensic nurse I know lives about an hour away from me.  We met at a small town on the beach (halfway between our homes) for lunch, and took time to converse about forensic nursing, processes in sexual assault care, course development of forensic nursing for local areas, and such.  What a pleasure to spend time talking face to face with such a beautiful mind and intelligent person (Thanks Jude!).  To be sure, the face to face time was buoyant for the mind/body/spirit, and I really needed that connection.  It has motivated me, and centered me, and made me feel 'connected' to the world.

Ah well...back to work!  May all of you find joy and peace in your daily lives, and may all of you find equally beneficial connections along the way...

~Cin

Scraggles

(Fiction...) 

“Dead as dead can be, my doctor tells me, but I just can’t believe him….”  I whispered the words rapidly, with a hint of irritation, just under my breath.  The man across from me lifted his eyes from the partly smashed body bleeding on the table, and gave me a quizzical stare.

He could never know the hell I’ve been through. 

If she really was dead, I’d rejoice, because I ‘d know that tomorrow the cycle wouldn’t begin.  But I know the truth.  The truth is she’ll crawl out of her stinking hole once again and her calico butt will be waiting for me at my front door step.  Waiting for me to let her in.  And my heart will feel that repetitive glimmer of hope until something goes horribly wrong.  Until death claims her. Or maybe not.

I thought about the people in the waiting room, and wanted so desperately to give them this advice: Never take a stray cat home from a graveyard.  The situation in itself should be a clue that bad news is preparing to follow you to the gates of your personal sanctuary. That demons are already chomping at your heels, and that by voluntarily carting the creature to the one place you consider safe, you’ve effectively guaranteed that they will never leave.

I turned to my boyfriend, Salem.  He still didn’t get it.  He’d watched the nine lives queen die twice now, but still thought the vet had been mistaken.  I’d seen the cat bite it and resurrect six times, and I was betting on number seven.

“That’s it then.” he said, with a conviction that almost made me want to believe him.  I eyed his curly head, his calm blue eyes.  He was the picture of serenity.  Eventually he would understand.  Then he would leave me.

I shook my head.  My sweaty hands trembled.  I could see my reflection in the mirror over the sink that stood across from the stainless steel table where Scraggles lay.  (That’s what I’d decided to call her, since her long feline hair often became bedraggled with dirt and muck after a few days of living.)  Dark circles looked as if they’d been painted under my eyes, the blackened half moons were so even.  Every inch of my hair looked as if it wanted to find it’s own direction to travel, greasy shoulder length brown and golden tresses having had nervous fingers run through them several times in at least three unwashed days.

“What do you want to do with the body?” The vet wasn’t cold about it.  He was being practical.  With a room full of clients, his method of making a living was waiting.

“Cremate her.”  I said.  “I want the ashes in an urn.  How soon can you get it done?”

I hadn’t gone the route of fire yet, afraid of what kind of creature would come back from the flames.  But maybe this time she wouldn’t come back.  Maybe that would do the trick.

The vet stroked his chin thoughtfully.  “The bodies go out every Friday.  We get them by Monday.  You’re lucky it’s Friday.  We can send her out this evening.”

I made an audible sigh of relief.  Perfect. The problem was, there was no specific time-frame when her spirit came back.  It was as if the grimalkin blithely wandered the spirit world and made an impetuous decision to pester the living when it suited her best.  What if she managed to pull her little stunt before the cremation?

****

I picked up the urn from the vet on Tuesday.  The day was glorious, filled with the scent of decaying red maple leaves, damp earth from last night’s rain, and the aroma of someone’s early chimney fire.  The container was a simple black plastic thing, no bigger than a large apple, sealed along the edges of the lid with clear packing tape.  Attached to it was a little paper card from the vet pronouncing its sympathy for my loss.  I made a wry smile.

Placing the urn into the passenger side of my red Toyota, the paint on the vehicle chipped and faded with years of travel, the only thought that filled my brain at the moment was:  

What do I do with the urn?

I couldn’t take it home.  Having it there, sitting on a shelf, would always make me afraid that Scraggles would one day pop out of it and claim me as her human once more.

Driving along the winding country road, it was a while before I realized I was near a part of the James River where a bridge crossed one of the deepest areas of rushing water.  I pulled over.  Grabbing the urn, I got out of the car.  Autumn winds whistled through the arms of somnolent trees.  Perhaps it was nostalgia, or some weird need to say goodbye a bit more intimately, but I found myself kissing her urn just before I pulled my hand back and chucked the remains into the frothing white rapids below.

“Goodbye, Scraggles.”  I said, and let myself smile.   Then I turned the car towards home, making a mental note on the way back to stop at the grocery and buy cat-food.

(written via a Writing Prompt through Ventura Fiction Writers....)

(Image from Greykitty on DeviantArt.com)

Out of Gas....

There are days I come home too exhausted to write much.  This is one of those days, and this post will be short because of it.  Tomorrow is International Nurse's Day, and I've organized a pot luck for the nurses, and little gift bags for them.  I'm not usually the nursey type but someone has to appreciate our hard working nurses.  My boss, and my fellow co-worker, are going in on the gifts and the appreciation day, and I'm glad.  I'm a little short on dollars, and not big enough on sense, but I want them to know that we know how hard they work.

MED-IG will be at our satellite clinic tomorrow, and Friday they'll visit us.  Joint Commission should be here soon as well, and I'm finding myself almost hopeful for my return to Afghanistan.  The worst part being I can't take my family with me.  Deployment, as most military folks will tell you, is not all that bad.  There's less politics, more real work, and the worst of it is the stench of porta-potties in the summer, and waiting at the air terminal to actually get on a flight.  Other than that, the sand, the heat, and the distance from the States is not all that bad.  The food is good, sometimes too good, and there's the constant need to exercise to avoid gaining weight.  The worst is being away from family, and trying to find ways to communicate with family when you're gone.  It will be a challenge, but I'll be glad to be away from the rat race for a while....

Back to the dissertation work, and rework.  Wishing you all blessings and peace in your lives.
~Cin

Running on Empty...

I know the day is going to be something that borders the usual when my gas tank is empty early in the morning, I'm running late for work, and I pull into the gas station with resignation in my heart...ready to fill the poor starving vehicle to the brim.  I vow to do this not because of any disciplined fortitude seething through my body, but (honestly) just so it won't be so painful to repeat the process in the near future.  The act is predictably counterproductive because as the numbers click by, the stabs to my wallet wither my unsavable soul to a husk.  (Meaning... I really can't seem to save money, no matter what I do.) Regular gas, on the military base, is a mere $4.099 a gallon. Pennies. A shitload of pennies.  I drove away $71.89 lighter in the pocket.  Or on the debit card.  Funny how the card didn't feel lighter, but weighed heavily on me as I spun my wheels the rest of the way to work.

Employment at a healthcare facility inevitably means undergoing a Joint Commission Inspection (or survey now as they now like to call it).  It is a couple days from our turn to be scrutinized at the Naval Branch Health Clinic in Port Hueneme, and today was spent reviewing processes, procedures, and clinic business happenings.  I've discovered I wish I knew half as much as I think I should know, and know about half as much as I would like others to think I know, about clinic goings on and healthcare processes.  The work day ended with a tension headache and an intense desire for a glass of red wine. The kind that looks like a mass of blood you can't spill in a murderous rage, so you might as well drink down with gusto and a burp.

I left work late.  Earlier I'd told Jim I probably wouldn't go by the Harbor tonight, but my van soon found its way along the familiar path, and I'm glad it did.  On the way, I saw the most beautiful coyote, which I was glad I didn't hit...its fur blended in perfectly with the California scrub brush...but after I passed it, I watched it lope gracefully across the road in my rear-view.  Fur a perfect shade of sand and wild bush...every step like it floated on clouds to the other side.  It was peaceful.  Beautiful.  The moment reminded me of how I want to be in life, and what I really am.  Wild, natural, but bound by the modern world that surrounds me.  Obligated to follow the rules of man, or suffer getting squished.  I mentally wished the coyote well.  I wished for the dear canine to not get squished.  I also wished that I don't get squished either along life's pathway...and that I survive the next few years among the political battles, the struggles, the strife, the constant push-me pull-yous...and that I'll be able to do some  good for somebody as I stumble along the way.

The beach pulled me to her, my Cuba Libre in hand (definitely the best cigar I've had in a while), and I sat on the rocks and therapeutically watched two surfers brave the rough of the waves.  The gray iron curls, spewing mounds of foam as they crashed into each other, didn't deter the short-boarders.  Behind me, the orange sun sank gently against the backdrop of Ventura...and I said my prayers.  "Om Mani Padme Hung".  May all beings be free of suffering.  May all beings awaken to their own true nature.  I watched the surfers catch their last waves, riding in to the shore with the setting of the sun, as if honoring the day...and despite today's jangling chaos, I felt a little more lighthearted.  A little more free.

Arriving home, Jim had fixed a lovely crustless quiche (broccoli and cheese!), and the makings of a strawberry shortcake awaited me as well.  All of that and a glass of wine, and combined with my family in house...the boy finishing homework, the girl coming home with a new do on her head ...excited to have a short bob for the first time she can remember (let's not talk about the time I took scissors to her curls when she was little)...and a wonderful husband who had (for the millionth time) steam cleaned the carpet free of pet excretions and ranking smell...and I feel...happy.  And it's more than the second glass of wine I poured tonight.  It's remembering the beach...the ocean (each drop of water recycled through Buddhas, hookers and criminals, through Christians, Jews and Muslims, and Pagans, and Humanists), the sand (each speck a tiny part that came from a living being that washed up from the sea)....and knowing/understanding that we are all connected.  Knowing that even as my daughter strums her ukelele upstairs and the string vibrations tickle my ears, this present moment (now, and now!) will live forever.  Live forever, even as my son watches You-Tube while taking a long bubble bath in our deep master-tub, and the water in which he bathed snakes down the drain and eventually find its way to the ocean....finds its back to the waves where later the surfers will ride.  Finds its was back to the froth that flies into the air around them.  Flies into the air that I breathe.

It's all in the Scale...

My eyes opened at 5AM, and I wondered why I thought that was OK.  Then I realized that even though I'd set my alarm for 6:00, it was a good thing I'd wakened early.  I'd forgotten I had to be at work in the wee hours to listen to a military training on "The Repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell".   The training was something else to sit through.  An hour of information that should never have had to be to be passed in the first place.  OK.  I get that the military has had taboo's against gay/lesbian relationships for what seems like forever, but I never knew anyone who really cared about them...that was unless they were getting ready to be kicked out of the military because of them.  From the time I was an E-1, I worked alongside gays and lesbians and never thought much of it.  People are people, and as long a those people work and play well with others I never cared about their sexual preferences.  It was interesting at this training to hear that in the upcoming policy, military personnel who have objections to serving with gays/lesbians in the military will be given the option to apply for an early release from the military, while gays/lesbians who have been dismissed from the military will be given the option to return to the military.  The first option, I don't understand.  The second option, I do.  The first one allows a military person who's always known they've served along side people with different sexual preferences (who just couldn't "tell about it" ) to leave the military, while the second tries to right an injustice that shouldn't have occurred in the first place.  For an hour, that was my morning...sitting in a small theater with my shipmates, listening to training on a new upcoming policy and thinking all the while about both how fast and how slow the military changes.

The rest of my day was spent preparing for the MED-IG inspection and Joint Commission survey, in between signing time cards and dealing with patient problems and communication issues with our clinic phone line.  At some point I try to be optimistic and think, "It's gotta get better....", but so far, the frustrations, the complications, the hold-ups and the interminable delays, problems and funding issues only seem to get worse.  I hope things get better soon.  Maybe I'll see a part of the rainbow bridge come charging in to rescue me at the end of the week, and I'll have a chance to jump on the road to Asgard. At least for the weekend.  It will be a stressful 5, now 4, days until then.

Coming home this evening, I made my frequent "decompress" stop at the Ventura Harbor.  There are usually surfers out at one of the jetty's taking on the incoming curling waves with their short boards, but not today.  Today the sea was rough, unruly and filled with froth and inner turbulence.  Only one lone wind-surfer was battling the angry gusts in a small secluded cove where people usually practice paddle boarding and small craft sailing.  He was brave one.

I puffed on a 5-Vegas while the wind whipped my hair around, and I half conversed (texting) with a fellow forensic nurse about an article we are co-writing together as a team. (Thank you so much, Pat!).  Actually, she's done most of the writing and I'm doing some reference checks, but so far she's been kind enough to put my name on the paper.  Publishing at least once a year is a desirable thing, especially for a forensic nurse/researcher.  It keeps us up to date, and competitive, in the professor, expert witness/ subject matter expert market.  It doesn't pay, or help me get a 6 figure salary, but it builds a reputation that might lead to job security (or not) in the long run.

Pelican's flew in formation over my head against the gust's of wind (I never look up just in case), and there was barely a cloud in the bright blue sky, as I looked over the sea.  My dissertation proposal is still looming over me, so I didn't spend a lot of time there, but instead finished off the smoky stick and headed home.  On the way back towards the house, the 'low gas' light came on and taunted me with its glow on the dash, and I sighed.  Tomorrow I'll fill the tank with another $60.00 worth of fuel.  Bicycling to work would look good if I didn't have to get up so darn early, and didn't leave work so tired, so late.  Ah well.  Tomorrow is another day.  Maybe, if I'm lucky, gas prices will have dropped.  What are the odds?

~Cin

Mother of a Day

My morning began with prayers.  Prayers for all of the mothers on earth, in heaven, in all of the realms and universes that exist.  It was a quiet morning, and the calm moment of prayer accented with the candlelight offering and incense, added to a sense of serenity that pervaded the air.

Mother's Day is one of those modern holidays that I have a hard time with.  Both my mother and Jim's have passed on, and neither one of us have Grandmothers that are still alive.  I personally have a hard time with people making a special day for mothers, because for me every day is mother's day.  I certainly don't forget I'm a mother, and I know my children and husband don't forget.  The constant barrage of hugs, kisses, pestering, guilt trips and playful nagging reminds them ever day.

Still, I received a beautiful card with a rose drawn on it made by my son, along with a cyber created mother's day message, and a loaf of banana bread cooked by my daughter along with a sibling dual/tag team cleaned bath tub.  Jim brought home flowers...the kind sporting big yellow sunflowers that just jump out at you with bright faces.  I'm a sucker for sunflowers, although it's one of the few flowers that when you cut them the whole plant dies.  I have a tough time with that, though their beauty helps me get over it a little.

The majority of my day was spent sitting in front of the computer battling it out with the last few changes I needed to make to my dissertation.  At 4PM, I showered and our family piled into the car and we went to Sky High, an Indoor Trampoline place where Mother's Day mothers (versus those non-mothers day mothers) were invited to jump for free.  Lucky me.  The jump time was for an hour, but my body lasted only 30 minutes.  My nemesis was the foam pit, which is a giant pit of square foamy dark and light blue blocks.  The idea behind the foam pit is that a jumper can careen down the trampoline path and launch themselves into the pit at any height, at any angle, and emerge unscathed.

I discovered it's difficult as hell to pull oneself out of a pile of foam of once you jump high on the trampoline and catapult yourself into the stuff.  Once the rescue team pulled me out, I vowed not to subject myself to such embarrassment again.  Out of self-preservation and a sense of decency, I decided that the foam pit was a Public Health hazard...(I mean, kids could sneeze in there and wipe their buggers on a spongy block and who would know?)...and so I avoided it and admired the brave biological warfare divers from afar hoping they wouldn't emerge with nasty green rashes that would take over their skin and cause it to crawl away.

Jim was more successful than me, and spent a good amount of time in the pit, while I went to the flat trampoline section and practiced in-the-air jumping jacks, spins, butt jumps and stale-fish airs.  Sean rotated between the dodge-ball section and doing double flips into the foam pit.    Kira, who was still recovering from last night's endless stream of loud music combined with senior prom dancing, declined to jump on the tramps due to sore muscles, but she congenially took pictures of the family and our funny antics.

After jumping for an hour, we took obligatory tourist photos in a large "queen" chair, then packed into the car and headed to Sushi-Fresh for dinner.  It never fails that almost every Japanese place in America is run by Koreans (nothing against Koreans, but they aren't Japanese), but the nice thing was that this restaurant in particular had the traditional food conveyor belt that is typical of sushi-bars in Japan.  We waited for vegetarian dishes to come around and took the decorated plates off the belt and ate tomago (cooked egg squares on top of rice) and edamame (unshelled soy-beans).  All in all, it was a good time.  Edamame, veggie-rolls, miso-soup and veggie-tempura were well cooked and fresh.  Michael, our server (Korean-American and taking a year off from school before going to college) just graduated high school last year and was thinking about going into graphic design.  It was fun to hear his questions about our vegetarian diet, and have him share what he was thinking he would do in the future while he expertly rolled our veggie rolls.  As the evening waned,we said our goodbye's in a variety of languages (everything except Korean, which I still don't know how to say goodbye in), and headed to the Wild Cherry next door for frozen yogurt.  It was a hedonistic evening filled with activity and food, and after eating the chocolate yogurt sprinkled with Health Bar crumbles and mini-peanut butter cups, I was convinced my stomach could do no more.

The drive home was filled with fun family conversation, and once we pulled into the driveway I remembered Kira's banana bread in the kitchen waiting to be consumed.  We all tried a piece, and I have to say, it was definitely tasty despite how full I was.  The walnuts were the perfect consistency, the inside of the banana cake sweet, and it was moist and yummy with the half glass of coconut milk I drank down with the bites of it.

As the evening now comes to a close, and Sean takes a bath while Kira and Jim laugh over the funny lines delivered in "The Proposal", I count myself extremely lucky to have such a beautiful, wonderful family.  I'm glad I'm home this Mother's Day.  Last year I was in Bagram Afghanistan, literally in tears because I missed my family so terribly.  Our lives are so short, life is so precious, and the time we have to share with each other is finite...it's a crime to take it all for granted.  I reflect on it all as I get ready for bed, and I give thanks that I am so fortunate to have my husband and my children in my life, and only hope that every being in the world is able to know the love of a mother, the embrace of a loved one, and the joy and comfort of family.  We all deserve it, and each and every being in the world will be in my prayers before I sleep tonight, as I wish them this simple but priceless happiness.