First Sound File.
Second Sound File.

Some Spirtual Music from other sites.

“The Family Music” – Widmer Family

The Green of the Forest – Sri Chinmoy
Theme from my Supreme
Nijere Karite
Hiyar Duar
Amar Amire
Tabla Solo
Nijum Rate
Abar Jabo
Ami Kandi
Borobodure

Sri Chinmoy’s Celebratory Esraj Concert – Video

Meditative Music

Beauty Of The Blue

A gentle dream-like blend of Sri Chinmoy’s songs, arranged for voice and keyboard by Russian group Infinity’s Sky

Cosmic Dream

A meditative recording of Sri Chinmoy’s music, arranged by Arthada and Friends of Austria.

Every Time You Love

A gentle and refined album of Sri Chinmoy’s songs, arranged by the world-class ensemble from Switzerland: Mountain-Silence.

Sacred Dawn

Shindhu’s music is very calm, soothing with an ethereal, heavenly touch.

A pdf file on security Issues on web sites

A few months ago I learned how to swim. I’d been able to swim before with a mask and snorkel which is fine when in Hawaii or the Caribbean observing colorful fish. It isn’t desirable in a lap swimming pool with chlorine and other swimmers right behind you.

I’d never been interested in learning before. I thought, ‘Who wants to swim back and forth in endless repetition. I’d be bored out of my mind.”

Yet a ‘deeper’ reason had to do with being in the water or rather, having my head underneath it. As a young girl I remember roughhousing in a pool with my cousin, Rick, who was much like a brother to me. He got carried away with holding my head under the water while he talked to a friend. By the time he released me, I’d turned a slight tinge of blue and gasped for air as I choked for quite awhile. I think I almost drowned. All I know is I never wanted to put my face back into the water again – that is, without a breathing device like the snorkel and mask.

When I turned 50 this year I decided to celebrate by conquering my fear of the water. I enrolled in beginner swim lessons at the YMCA and joined many other adults who had their own versions of my story. The classes were one hour, twice a week, for four weeks. During the first couple of lessons my heart pounded so much I thought it would come through my chest. It seemed as if great white sharks aimed right for me each time I’d put my face in the water. I poked my head out of the water constantly desperate for breathe. Yet I kept on swimming. I never quit.

With the gentle guidance and encouragement of my swim instructors and my huge tenacity – I became a swimmer. Half-way through the first four weeks I advanced to the intermediate level. I then took another four week course to perfect my strokes. By the end of eight weeks, the fear no longer had its grip on me. In fact, I feel as if I’ve been swimming all my life.

I learned all I needed to do to get over this enormous fear I’ve had for most of my life was to swim right through it. By continually showing up and facing it, literally with my head IN the water, it gradually lost its hold on me. And now it has sunk to the very bottom – washed itself away from my core.

I even decided to give up running which I’ve done for 30 years and replaced it with activities like swimming which are so much kinder to the joints, and I burn even more calories during the process.

I can barely believe I’m one of the lap swimmers now. Back and forth and back and forth I glide. I never could have imagined myself doing this much less enjoying it. I’ve discovered swimming to be so meditative. My only thoughts are on my breath – it is the place I go to rest my mind and rejuvenate my body. It almost feels as if I’m in a womb swimming – it is like rebirth, and I’m so very grateful for my decision to release this fear – which turns out had all been an illusion anyway.

Se numeşte Alex şi e unicul copac din metrul său pătrat. E un tip care urăşte timpul rece şi perioada de amorţire, de aceea se străduie să doarmă cât mai puţin vara (deseori îşi trezeşte vecinii cu serenadele sale la adresa Lunii). În zilele cu soare adună pe crengile sale orchestre de păsări, care nu-l lasă să doarmă nici măcar o clipă. Asta datorită verzimii cu care-l împodobesc frunzele şi a înălţimii la care a ajuns cu atâta sârg.

Îi place să se scarpine din când în când (cu două crengi mai aplecate) pe la spete, atunci când bate vântul mai tare.

Are un vecin care susţine că, atunci când era mic, însuşi Eminescu s-a pişat la rădăcina lui.

Are de doi ani conflict cu o veveriţă sturlubatică care, în mod obraznic, i-a ocupat unica scorbură, pe care-o ticseşte cu fel de fel de fructe şi nucuşoare de care, de fapt, uită în timpul iernii.

Cel mai mult îi displace toamna. (Să nu vorbim acum de omizi.) Intră în panică când vede că încep a-l trăda frunzele, alegând pământul putred în locul crengilor sale primitoare. În fiecare an ultima frunză căzătoare în pădure e pe-o creangă de-a lui.

Într-o zi de toamnă târzie, când pădurea deja dormea în marea ei majoritate, l-a îmbrăţişat un curios care citise că, îmbrăţişând un copac, se va încărca cu o anumită energie. Atunci Alex simţi ceva ce încă nu simţise. I se păru că e din nou vară, şi iar se înalţă deasupra altor arbori mândru, cu frunze mai verzi decât a tuturor copacilor din pădure, şi iar se scarpină, necontenit, cu cele două crengi aplecate pe la spete. Tremură tot de plăcere şi, în extazul acesta al său, îşi scăpă şi ultima frunză, pe care o păstrase ca în fiecare an. Vântul o luă pe sus, o purta pe nişte cercuri imaginare, după care o lăsă nepăsător să cadă, şi ea se aşeză cuminte pe prima zăpadă.

Şi ningea. Alex a văzut ultima lui frunză la pământ. Şi a adormit definitiv.

Atribuire imagine: Smashcut / CC BY-NC 2.0

Leaves have finally turned color! I had been waiting for this all summer, not having lived north enough before to see the four-season cycle. The streets are covered in opulent gold and red, and gleam in late afternoon light. Color changes first at the fringes. It is not so much the production of yellow, as the retreat of green–the disappearance of chlorophyll–that light-harvesting molecule that transforms air into the trees’ very substance. Now, it is shutting down operations, one-by-one dismantling its photosynthetic accoutrements, until a mere black skeleton remains of a once dazzling fullness–a naked stick to stand up to winter.

Reds and purples also appear, at the right conditions, as excess sugars of winter hoarding are transformed by light into color. An occult conjunction of moisture and weather, the onset of spring, the end of summer. No two autumns are thus ever alike.

Autumn to me was, for a long time, merely evoked by Rilke’s poems in The Book of Images. Ostensibly religious, these perhaps belong more properly to his earlier monastic and meditative work, The Book of Hours.

“Who is alone now, will long remain so…” This line has always puzzled me. I did not understand why it should be so, that is, until I saw how ice in winter obstructs travel, and thus reunions. Autumn is the time to wrap things up before we are locked into the dead of winter. The restlessness in the poem, evoked by the flurry of leaves, is that before an impending stasis.

This poem is one of my very first introductions to Rilke, and it remains one of my favorites. I remember first reading it in Filipino in Fr. Roque Ferriol’s ethics class. Without being overt as the first (“Lord: it is time…”), it is nonetheless a more steeply religious poem. Falling leaves (“as from withering heavenly gardens”) also embody a metaphysical disarray. Unlike the first poem, however, which ends in a foreboding disquietude (before death?), here, there is a steadying transcendent force: a great Hand that gently catches all the falling. Yet this is not made out of any rational assurance; the last stanza rather states a beatific inversion that can only be uttered from the depths of religious experience.

Related Links:

• Why Leaves Change Color

“Each of us has a soul, but we forget to value it…We don’t understand the great secrets hidden inside of us.”

St. Teresa of Avila

One thing I am enjoying as I delve into reading Stephen Cope’s memoir is his reference to mystics of all religions and philosophies as there are so many corollaries between their practices–all meditative, contemplative, and instilled with devoted faithfulness to their chosen practice and spirituality. 

He has referenced, also, some of my favorite Christian mystics (although I have favorite mystics from every tradition and honor all of their intense dedication to their life paths)  including the anonymous monk author of  The Cloud of Unknowing and Teresa of Avila. 

Saint Teresa has always had a little place in my heart and soul–and a huge place in my name and naming.  I was named twice.  Once by nuns in the orphanage in Bogota and once by my parents in New Jersey, but both with the same name and for the same reason.  I was born on Teresa of Avila’s Saint’s Day, October 15th, and congrats to us both having celebrated our co-anniversary–mine of life and hers of recognition of great works as a contemplative and mystic within her faith tradition of Christianity. 

 Something about the fortuitous and coincidental nature of my naming–twice with the same name no less– has led me to believe that I was in some way meant to be a mystic heart.  That and the fact that I was always drawn to her writing both for its poetic force and for the meditative content found within.

Contemplatives and mystics the world round talk at some point (and through different linguistics) about the concept of “unknowing”.  The book The Cloud of Unknowing perhaps the greatest, at least one of the greatest, literary tomes to this concept was also one of the first, written by a monk in anonymity during the 14th century.  It’s focus and much of mystic exploration before and since is on the concept of getting beyond the known, the certainty, the ego, the pride– all of the inherent humanness we learn to cultivate through years of schooling and indoctrination of how we must be certain. 

Especially in the modern world we must, above all else, KNOW.  Not knowing is weak, not respected, and considered a sign of idiocy.  You will be trampled by the powerful and the charismatic if you don’t know.  But what if you intentional unknow?  What an unfathomable concept.  We must know who we are, put our stamp on the world, preach, and shout, and tout what we believe with irrevocable certainty otherwise who will want to listen?

Some of my favorite authors, teachers, philosophers, intellectuals, and spiritual persons in recent years are the ones who have the capacity to be passionate leaders, mentors, and advocates for a cause without touting certainty.  They, in fact, vocalize uncertainty–which often makes “the certains” of the world very nervous.  But what I have learned as I try (and I emphasize try) to cultivate a more contemplative and meditative mindset is that admitting to and embracing unknowing is one of the most spiritually mature and brave things a person can do. 

Unknowing is something we should all work to cultivate.  Sure, we have spent a lifetime cultivating knowing, but to be able to let that go, let our hold loosen on what must be certain and leave room for the uncertain would be a brave thing indeed.  It would also leave room for all sorts of mystical  and meditative surprises that we might have been closed to before. 

I know with myself, as well as my trauma clients as a whole, control is one of the hardest things to let go of in trauma healing.  After you have endured the worst life and the world has to offer all you have is your personal control–of yourself, of situations, of other people.  But, what is essential in learning in attempting to heal from trauma is that, that control is an illusion.  We have very little control over things in our lives, and with trauma often the things in ourselves are so out of control we can only maintain them to some small extent.  Control is an illusion as is, in many things, knowing.

I will admit it.  Giving into unknowing in life is one of the hardest tasks.  I study those that have a better grasp on it intently to try to master it piece by piece.  I know I have trouble–as I sit latching on, with whitened and braced knuckles, to the little control I like to believe I have over my life–letting that control illusion go. 

I know I have trouble, through pride, ego, and learning, to say it is ok not to know and to let go of that mental dynamic I have imprinted in my mind that we must know to be better or more wise.  I have a lot to unlearn to become one who can effectively “unknow”. 

Unknowing is, perhaps, the hardest part of cultivating a contemplative life and a more yogic sensibility. 

I find comfort in exploring other’s journeys on these paths–from the ancient mystics to a fellow psychotherapist and eloquent author like Cope who quotes the same mystics I have quoted, and whom I can watch, through his writing, take his own contemplative journey into self. 

Another contemplative for whom I have the greatest admiration is Thomas Keating (a modern Christian contemplative) is perhaps one of the most centered people I have ever encountered personally.  His presence is one which evokes calm.  Meditating in his presence somehow induces a feeling of being closer to something warm, radiating, and sublime.  My experience in meeting him was one of the most spiritually profound I have ever had.  He is someone from whom I constantly garner, through his writing and his speaking, more and more insight into myself. 

Father Keating once said, “Just by the very nature of our birth, we are on a spiritual journey.”  I would add to that, from my personal experience, saying that, “Just by the nature of my naming, I am on a mystic journey.”

“And so I urge you, go after experience rather than knowledge. On account of pride, knowledge may often deceive you, but this gentle, loving affection will not deceive you. Knowledge tends to breed conceit, but love builds. Knowledge is full of labor, but love, full of rest.”

From The Cloud of Unknowing

One of my cousins contacted me on FB and said that this was something that my grandfather used to say… I did not know my grandfather that well, and always thought that he was kinda a reclusive, depressed person, such were the stories that I heard. But this sheds some new light on him and his wisdom. A good credo for this frenetic day and age, indeed. Thanks, Gampa.

Happy autumn everyone!

If you’re wondering where I’ve been all summer, the answer is simple: out in the garden.  Autumn is my favorite season, but learning to grow food has vastly broadened my appreciation of the warm, sunny growing months.

Despite my goals to be more a more diligent blogger for 2009, I have instead focused the majority of my time on writing fiction and poetry, and growing food and flowers.

Kind thanks to reader Diana Hunt for encouraging me to get back to business at AppleJade.  To start us off, here’s a quick peek at what I was doing out in the garden during June, July, and August…

In June we were smitten with strawberries.  These plants have been growing here without any help from me for nearly 10 years.  They have happily consumed a sizable chunk of the vegetable patch, and this autumn many of them will be relocating to new beds which are being established in the rockier and less-hospitable parts of the yard.  My reasoning is that the strawberries are so hardy and so happy to propagate that they should make excellent (and tasty) pioneers.

The corn plants grew steadily through June and July, and I really should dedicate an entire separate post to what they accomplished this year by creating so much food out of so little soil.  We ate sweet, healthy corn all through the month of August.

Pumpkins had a slow start, and I think we now have three pie-worthy squash out there which are just beginning to turn orange.  My plan for next spring is to start the squash in the cold frame as I did with the corn, and then transplant when it’s warm enough in May.  This was a successful approach for the corn harvest, so hopefully pumpkins and other squash won’t mind the transplant method.  Pumpkins will definitely have a post of their own so you can see their progress and learn about their flowers.

Sunflowers dominated the scene all around the yard this year.  We collected almost all the seeds from our Pennsylvania sunflowers, and those seeds waited patiently from 2007 to be planted here in western Washington this year and subsequently bloom upwards of eight feet.  They’re just finishing now.  I managed to get three of the largest seed-heads indoors to finish drying, but the rest have been claimed by the busy blue Steller’s jays (Cyanocitta stelleri).  As with corn and pumpkins, the sunflowers deserve a post of their own to show just how much they accomplished this season.  (And yes, that’s me, standing in front of some of the corn and sunflowers just before the first flowers opened.  The purple-pink blush behind the corn is from the foxglove (genus Digitalis) and fireweed (Epilobium angustifolium) two of my favorite local wildflowers, coming in to full summer bloom.)

Marigolds, lettuce, cilantro, beans, and many others have boomed throughout the garden and pop up just about everywhere.  I moved all the arugula and other greens out of the cold frames when they went to seed, and let the plants finish in the cooler corners of the fenced-in vegetable garden.  They should be dropping those seeds very soon now thanks to the wind and rain, which will hopefully result in a fresh crop.

Tomatoes grew strong, vibrant, and healthy all season, but left me with a plethora of green fruits.  They have only just begun to ripen, and as a result many of them are coming indoors as soon as they begin to to show yellow or pink where they can finish among the warmth of the kitchen.  I’ll continue to keep them ripening outdoors until the tomato plants finally turn brown – which I’m guessing isn’t too far in the future.

For now, I’ll leave you with a nasturtium, another friendly flower which can be found just about everywhere around the garden.  While all parts of nasturtiums are edible, I’ve resisted collecting too many flowers or seeds for dinners in the hopes that the plants will successfully re-seed themselves for next summer.  I’ll let you know my success when they reemerge next June.

Have you tried meditation and got no results? Do you have a hard time sticking with it? Or maybe you can’t focus enough to get in a meditative state? If any of that’s happened to you then it might be easy to give up trying to meditate altogether. But you can’t do that because meditation is important and if you’ve tried it then I’m sure that truth resonates with you as well.

Meditation is the key to obtaining an organized mind, inner balance, and spiritual awareness. Once you begin to meditate your dreams will intensify and you will become more aware of another level of vibration around you. Meditation is the foundation upon which you can build a strong spiritual presence. Your perceptions will get stronger and you will be able to see beyond linear time. All improvements of the self begin with meditation because it’s through meditation that you actually get to know yourself.

Not only is meditation positive for your spirituality and awareness it’s also good for your physical and mental state of health.

It can lessen stress, lower blood pressure, improve heart disease, slow aging, balance emotions, intently focus the mind with increased neural response, improve mental health, and gain more interpersonal control of how one’s thought processes create their quality of life.

A guided meditation is typically considered one in which someone’s voice guides you through the process. The voice can be your own or someone else’s. Some people feel more relaxed or more clear as a result of guidance and support of another’s voice.

Another form of guided meditation is using Binaural Beats.

The human brain goes through many frequency cycles during each day. Different frequencies produce different effects to the human consciousness. Using this information, it has been discovered that the brains receiving and operating frequency can be altered by sound waves. Many of the most powerful brain frequencies are less than 20 Hz.  Hertz, or Hz for short, are a unit of frequency.

The ear itself does not respond to frequencies below 20 Hz Binaural Beats come into play which uses the inner wiring of the brain to produce the frequency with perfect accuracy.

So what happens is that in your right ear will be a frequency of 300 Hz and in your left ear will be a frequency of 308 Hz so your brain is drawn towards the beat frequency of 8 Hz which is the difference between the two. Neat right?

An example is when you fly in a passenger plane; you may often hear a fluctuating droning sound. That is a beat frequency caused by engine vibrations at two close frequencies.

Different Hz are associated with different things. For example 4-7 Hz, which are classified as Theta waves, are associated with Dreams, Deep Meditation, and REM sleep.

When you are just falling asleep at night you are probably in the 7 – 13 Hz range, classified as Alpha waves, which are associated with Relaxation, and before and after bed drowsiness.

During the day when you are awake, you are most likely in the area of >40 Hz, classified as Gamma waves, which are associated with higher mental activity.

The precise different Hz have been studied and proven to help you in different areas of your life. For example, if you wanted to use binaural beats for meditation, there are frequencies that will take you into a deep meditative state.

For people who are scatter brained when they try to meditate this is ideal because along with the binaural beats there’s normally an accompanying sound like water or music that’s very easy to focus on.  And for people who have a hard time getting into the meditative state the beats help them out with that.

No matter who you are or how you find it easiest to do it meditation will benefit you.

A practicing hypnotherapist, neuro-linguistic practitioner, music and sound therapist, and guided meditation teacher certified in the state of Arizona, USA has come up with a system to help you meditate without fail.  Learn how he can help you at  guided meditation

I’ve settled into my new job at the adult foster home on Oregon’s North Coast. Its been a great experience so far, my stress level from when I was married to today is like night at day. I’m much more relaxed and able, though I still feel it difficult to cope with unexpected changes when they present themselves. But I’m doing okay I suppose.

My issue currently is I don’t feel so monastic as I thought I would at this point. I’ve found a group online right now that is much more tailored to protestant beliefs, focused on building community without physical limitation. They promote being involved in a local church only to serve as a missionary to people who are being called out of the organized churches into a fuller expression of Christ and His bride the Church.

I’m still drawn to monastic life, though. Particularly I am interested in life at Oxford, Michigan, at the Lutheran Monastery there. But I wonder what purpose I would serve there as a monk?

As for now, I’m content with my life and the direction it has taken. Though I do often find myself regretful and overtaken with despair, when I reflect on the former life with my wife and the kids. It just makes me sad, how convinced I was that she had been chosen for me by God, how I had thought I was such a fortunate man to have found a woman who loved me so much that she would never leave me. In the end I have received a similar lot as most. Separation. Abandonment. The fruit of my labor has withered on the vine of what I thought was a blessed union. But, this is the reality, I suppose, with men and woman. I should have taken heed Paul’s words: it is better for a man not to touch a woman. But I do not regret the 5 years I spent with my wife or her children. I have come away from it beaten, broken – but I have come away alive inside, free from restraint, free from burden, free from the cares of this world.

I am now perched on the penacle of realizing my own prosperity. I have much more learned contentment without material posession. I know and believe that my God will provide for me, no matter what circumstance I might find myself in. I have even found fellowship in my current situation, which is beyond what I could have ever imagined. Praise be to my God.

So, at this point, I’m not sure if I will be updated to this journal regularly. Though I might use it as my personal journal, since I’m still pretty eremitic in my personal life. I live with two other gentlemen who are developmentally disabled, so in some sense I’m a friend, a brother, a care provider and also a father all rolled up into one. Living with other people, taking care of them, I would consider my service – though it does not neessarily build the church proper – yet it does contend to care for widows and orphans. But, at the same time, am I here because of them, or am I here because of my paycheck each month? If for my check, then can this be considered my love service? And I am here because the pay is so good and because the benefits are better than what could possibly be had anywhere else for the amount of work I do. In this only God can judge.

So if I write more, I will write more. If I do not, I will not.

en Christos

Artistul, chiar în singurătate fiind, are nevoie de prieteni, de o înţelegere sufletească. Are nevoie de c(in)eva care să-l aprecieze înaintea consumatorilor de artă, ceva care să-i insufle siguranţă, să-i zică: tot ce faci e spre bine.

De fapt, puţini sunt acei oameni care se simt bine în singurătate. Ei sunt oameni care suferă în urma contactului inevitabil cu societatea, aceasta din urmă taxându-i drept gnomi. Gnomul urăşte socializarea; încearcă orice ocupaţii afară de construirea relaţiilor cu oamenii.

Să ne închipuim un artist-gnom. E greu de închipuit. Un artist lucrează pentru oameni, deci le place să aibă contact cu ei. Artistul are nevoie de prieteni, ca orice om, fără ei el devine neom.

Dar, pe cât ar părea de banal, există personaje care nu au prieteni, şi nu se plâng, şi nu trădează niciun regret. Însă astfel de oameni au, până la urmă, nevoie de înţelegere; poate nu din partea prietenilor, ci din partea lumii ca întreg. Ai vreo bucurie să scrii o operă, să compui un cântec pe care nimeni n-o să-l aprecieze? Nu, decât doar atunci când faci totul pentru tine. Dar un om care face totul numai pentru sine nu se mai numeşte artist.

Deci, singurătatea prinde bine artistului, totuşi, în această singurătate el trebuie să distingă câţiva prieteni care să-l susţină, sau dacă nu — măcar un pic de înţelegere, un strop de recunoaştere, un cuvânt de mulţumire.

În fiecare septembrie, începând cu anul 2008, voi strica acest articol pentru a nu mă face vinovat de note de zece nemeritate.

“Get your shoes on–you need to come with me” I stated matter of factly as I walked in the house. My husband, who was playing the new Tiger Woods WII golf game I gave him for Father’s Day looked up and wondered what was going on. I moved directly toward the cupboard above the kitchen sink where I kept all my meds and as I opened the door, I knew exactly what I was going to need–Vicadin and Ibuprofen–And a lot of it. I figured with what I was about to do, I needed to get a jumpstart on curbing the pain factor.

I have never been a big “taker” of things. I am a lightweight. I admit it. I never liked that feeling of the room spinning, dry heaving from drinking too much, or the next day’s hangover. I hated not being in control–(there we go again). However, after my mastectomy, I found that my pain tolerance was off the charts. I was also in extreme emotional distress and I was very glad for those pills which helped keep me out of it for two weeks straight. I had a few Vicadin pills left over from my mastectomy and decided I was going to take advantage of them on this evening. I popped two of them and 4 Ibuprofen, grabbed my debit card, my camera, my hubby and away we went.

I wasn’t nervous at all as we drove. Jeff asked, “what’s going on?”.

I simply stated, “I’m going to get a tattoo”. He couldn’t believe it. Me. The pain wimp.

“You’re joking, right?” he said.

“Nope”, I replied.

“Where are you putting it?” he came back with.

“On the nape of my neck”, I said.

“Geez, that’s gonna hurt like Hell. I’ve heard that’s a really painful place to put it”, Jeff said.

“I’m not worried about it.” I smiled.

“You’re never gonna go through with it”, he looked at me smirking.

“Watch me”, I retorted.

We drove into the parking lot of the Scorpion’s Den, a local tattoo parlor. Ironically, the building that houses the business actually used to be my husband’s late grandmother’s house. He can remember playing in the house when he was a little boy. He was amazed at the changes and began to talk to the owner about which room used to be used for what. The owner asked him to bring in a picture of the house or the rooms and he was very interested in framing them and hanging them in his business.

While the men were talking, I went over to the scariest looking guy there that night. I struck up a conversation with him and showed him on the computer the image I wanted. As he sized up the image and traced it out on the transfer paper, I took a few minutes to look through some of the artwork. I couldn’t believe I was about to do this. I had always been against tattoos–personally. I am all for freedom of expression and didn’t care what anyone else did, but for me–it wasn’t a statement I wanted to make. I had never felt like “owning” anything like that before, but what that girl said to me in the wig boutique changed my mind. I was also beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, I had grown up a little too much. Its hard for me to explain because anyone that knows me–knows I live in a kid’s wonderland–literally. I play with kids, teach kids, hang with kids, laugh with kids, chase kids, swing with kids, paint with kids, etc. How could I be ‘too’ grown up?

Since I am entrusted with kids each day, I maintain a very high quality childcare in my home–one of the top in Scott County, IA. Since my business is kids, I’m not just asked to play with the kids, I am also obligated to teach them and to guide them in making good choices. I have to be an example to them–a good role model. So, in almost 14 years of providing care and having a ball doing it–had I essentially grown up and forgotten what it was like to really just have fun and let loose–lose control–personally–on a leisurely level? Maybe if I did drink a small glass of wine each evening I wouldn’t be wound so tight. Maybe if I made it a point to spend time laughing with girlfriends instead of pouring myself into my classes I would remember how it feels to loosen up. Maybe if I just went and got a tattoo, I could say to myself that I hadn’t forgotten the rebel inside of me.

There were a few other justifications, as well, for getting the tattoo.

1. It was a symbolic outward representation of the disease I was fighting.

2. It was a daily reminder that I needed to live life fully because we never know what is going to be thrown in our path.

3. It was my acceptance into the club–the one I had been fighting against for months. My VIP stamp of sorts that bound me to other women that had gone before me and would come after me.

4. It was going to be in a place that would be out of sight when my hair grew back so it wouldn’t be a nuisance should I ever be interviewed for something that might affect future endeavors.

5. The place I was going to put it–ahhh–the nape of the neck–during chemo–while I was bald or my hair was very short–it would serve as a sort of spiteful gesture to those that would look at me and question or whisper behind my back why I looked the way I did. Yes, this one is completely childish, but it also gives me the biggest laugh. It was a fact–I was going to lose my hair–something I was fiendishly upset about. The kicker–I would lose it right at the start of this summer’s pool season. I had counted up the days on the calendar. I had circled the day the pool opened. It was always circled each year–my family lives for that day. The thought that I was going to be a uniboob mom this summer was excruciating enough but to think I would also be bald was enough to leave me sobbing for days on end. I pictured in my mind people at the pool looking at me from the front and averting their eyes, or staring disgustingly at me. I pictured them pointing and whispering to their friends to look at me.

I also pictured turning around so they could see a large pink ribbon tattooed to the back of my neck and without having to turn around to see their expressions, I could see their faces melt into sorrow and then they would feel bad for pointing and staring or laughing at me. They would get it. Instant guilt trip. I win. My childish mind had come up with the perfect solution to combat what was about to be my toughest summer on record and I loved the idea!

6. I knew that things were aligned perfectly for me to get the tattoo on that day. In two days, I would be sitting in my new dentist’s chair as he put me under for my root canal and to also fix the 5 cavities. I knew I would go home from that with a lot of antibiotics and so if the tattoo should become infected over the course of 48 hours, I would have enough penicillin to help put that back into submission. I also knew the antibiotics would help everything heal faster and so–if ever there was a time to get a tattoo–today was the day.

7. Most importantly, my chemo was going to start that upcoming Thursday. In 5 days I would be sitting in a chair while poison was being infused throughout my body. I knew my oncologist would not allow me to have a tattoo after I started treatment. My white cells would be shot from the drugs and if I developed an infection from the tattoo, then I would be in big trouble. So, it was now or never.

8. Last, but not least, I had been told that if I would ever consider a reconstruction, the new boob would have the areola tattooed on. That’s how they do it. Wow. I never knew that. I decided I certainly didn’t want my first tattoo to be that of a nipple!

When it was time to go back to my room with Jesse, I gave my hubby the camera and told him to take a ton of pictures. I wanted to remember this rite of passage. I never wanted to forget this moment in my life. I felt like it was a very visual way of me “owning it” and that it was also a way of me being able to move forward. Jesse’s appearance complete with tattoes and body piercings didn’t scare me. I was a bartender for 15 years and I was able to comfortably joke around with him. I think that surprised him from the woman he probably mistook for being conservative and sheltered.

We talked about the ribbon itself. I told him I didn’t want it to look perfect. I didn’t want it to have clean lines or neatly trimmed edges. I wanted it to look “Torn and Tattered”, “Worn and Weary”, and I also wanted it to look like a “Work in Progress”–because that’s exactly how I felt. I told him, “I’m a Work in Progress” also and I hoped someday in the future, when I truly feel in my heart that I have beaten this cancer that I would come back and write the word “Survivor” underneath the ribbon. Jesse looked at me and said, “Awesome”.

He shaved the back of my neck, placed the transfer on it, and gave me a mirror to check it out. I was so excited. He showed me where to sit and he went to work. With my head bent forward over a cushion I joked with him about life while Jeff captured it all on film. I listened to the buzzing of his tool and could feel the oddest sensations–some of which were slightly painful, but tolerable. I could visualize how he was outlining the ribbon and where he was filling it in. I could feel him going over certain areas repeatedly for extra shading. I could feel him trail off the ends of my ribbon to make them look frayed. It was so meditative for me and I won’t lie–I was so glad I took those Vicadin beforehand!

I knew we were getting to the end and I was glad because I was beginning to grit my teeth each time he rounded over the top of the ribbon. I was also making a low, gutteral sound each time the vibrating needle came close to the base of my skull. You know what it feels like if you put a massager on the top of your head? That’s what it felt like in a weird way only with pain involved. The vibrations from his needle would come up the back of my skull and travel all the way across the top. I couldn’t help but think what it must feel like for some people who get their whole skull tattooed–wait–I don’t want to know about that–I was ready to be done. And just like that–we were. I stood up and looked at it in the mirror. I couldn’t believe it. Jeff came and told me, “Good Job” and gave me a quick kiss. I was in awe. I loved it. I absolutely loved it. It was a part of me now. There was no escaping it. I was branded for life.

A Work In Progress

There are new pics over in Flickr Photos. I spent way too long trying to get them in chronological order–it just wouldn’t work. They are going from last to first?? Click on more pictures and you’ll see the album sitting to the right–that is in order. I am letting go of it so I can move forward. Enjoy.

Grab Bag Thought for the Week:

“The best things in life are free.  The next best things are REALLY expensive”.   ~LK

Grab Bag Welcome September Moment:

OK… new month, new start, new you… listen to this feel-good September tune and just get up and dance, for goodness sake

Grab Bag Green Moment:

Ya know… most of those cleaning products we buy are engineered from one, single perspective… making money. To do that successfully, companies follow 3 principles:

1. It has to work.

2. It has to smell good, or at the very least not smell bad (focus groups show that good smells can be a game changer).

3. They need to manufacture them for as little as possible and sell them for as much as possible.

But with all their magazine ads and TV commercials, they have convinced us that we don’t know how to clean well, unless we use their products. I say bollocks. Here are 3 ingredients I’m betting you’ve got, and 1 you should go get:

1. Olive oil: Use to lubricate and polish wood furniture (three parts olive oil to one part vinegar; or two parts olive oil to one part lemon juice).
2. Potatoes: Halved potatoes can remove rust from baking pans or tinware – follow with a salt scrub or dip the potato in salt before scrubbing.
3. White vinegar: Cleans linoleum floors and glass (from windows to shower doors) when mixed with water and a little liquid soap (castile or vegetable). It cuts grease and removes stains, and removes soap scum and cleans toilets (add a bit of baking soda if you like). Pour down drains once a week for antibacterial cleaning. Add to water in a spray bottle to kill mold and mildew.
4. Tea tree oil: Can be added to vinegar/water solutions for its antibacterial properties. Use it to kill mold and mildew, and on kitchen and bathroom surfaces instead of chemical products. Add 50 drops to a bucket of water to clean countertops and tile floors.
5. Reader Roxie S. adds that kosher salt and lemon works beautifully on copper.

Grab Bag “Wish I Hadn’t Done That” Moment:

Though many of “our generation” are not truly tech-savvy enough to frequently update software (and that is not, contrary to popular belief, buying new underwear), you might be….  or you might know someone who does. Sometimes the newer versions of things really throw a monkey wrench into your computer, which “was working fine until I upgraded to XYZ”.

OldVersion.com to the rescue! This website makes available a vast library of previous versions of software… versions that just might let you use that older printer again, avoid iTunes restrictive policies, or just play nicely with everything else you’ve got on there.

OLDVERSION.COM

Grab Bag Exercise Encouragement:

Need some direction, variety, or motivation? RealAge.com provides free workout videos for all levels and time allowances. Check them out here:

RealAge Videos

Grab Bag Meditative Moment:

Somewhere in Time… Click on the arrow below, close your eyes, and breathe slowly and deeply for the six minutes of soul-soothing sounds from The City of Prague Philharmonic performing John Barry’s theme from the 1980 movie… :59 seconds into the music is when Christopher Reeve sees Jane Seymour in the flesh for the first time as a young woman…. enjoy…. being sent to you, from me, with lots of love…

Grab Bag Nifty Knowledge Moment:

This made the rounds on the ‘net a couple of years ago, but I know it didn’t stick for me… I guess you need to practice this one…

Grab Bag Brain Game:

CANUFIT

Grab Bag Funny Stuff:

Worried about what your kids are up to when away at college or living away from home?? Thank goodness for TheOnion.com….

Facebook and Twitter Revolutionize How Parents Can Stalk Their College-Age Kids!!

RU

• Jekaterina Moskalyova / Ekmos Art
• Transpersonal paintings / Surrealism / Abstraction / Primitivism / Meditative drawing /Spontaneous and simultaneous drawing / Graphics / Cartoons / Painting on silk / Textiles / Painting on walls and furniture
• Born in Latvia. By nature she is melancholic.  She loves silence, night, rain, forest, poppies, animals. She loves her boyfriend. She does not like when someone ignores her or is not paying attention.  She hates lies.  Recently she realized that she dislikes therapy.  Despite the fact that there was time when she admired it.  She loves when her biggest dreams come true.
• She made her first drawing when she was 8 or 9 years old. She loved reading comics about Micky Mouse. And her favorite character was Donald Duck.
• She chose painting because she likes it.  It is like a tool – sometimes to spill out your soul to the canvas. Or something that disturbs you. Sometimes – it’s a tool of memorializing happy and positive moments of your life.  She prefers surrealism. Psychedelia.
• She never had thought about her own ideal painting or model. She does not think that it’s that essential. Itself the idea of “ideal painting”, “ideal model” – sounds silly to me. Every person is able to see something important for him in any image. “Every person hes his own idea of what’s ideal.”
• She will never draw something she can’t see.  We mostly draw something we see.. even if sometimes it’s an awful rape scene.  Sometimes it can be – colorful, filled with love and harmony.
• She says: “To tell you the truth I don’t think I am a painter. I am just drawing what I have inside me”
• All her works are mostly psychedelic (those are usually one’s which are not made on a request, just those which i paint for myself) and are full of expressions, they may sometimes be absurd, illogical, sometimes naive or frightening.  In general it’s a whole world, someone may like it, someone may disgust it.  Jekaterina is happy for any reaction.

You can find her at:

Ekmos-Art

Imagine a cylinder.
You are inside;
honey-scented tobacco
burning by your Uncles chair.

This is a slower world
of pinks and ochres,
of joys and certain comforts.
Outside, a storm.
Stitches of rain hem you in.

Aunt is lino-shuffling
to a kettle started whistling.
The rustle of biscuits.
The scratching of birds in the loft.
Uncle gently snoring.
And another sound;

Two drops of wallpaper come apart.
The cylinder seam splits.

A frightening gap.

A hinge creaks behind you.
You grab onto the chair
as the cylinder gapes and springs

flinging you to a world wide and waiting,
snapping shut on Uncle stuffing his pipe
and Aunt pouring endless water to
a pre-heated teapot.

When I was young
I fell asleep
Drunk on Macrahanish beach.

I told everybody it was beautiful
Just so I could say Macrahanish.

Mac ra ha nish

But I was young
And I was drunk
And I didn’t give two fucks for beauty.

For beauty is an old man’s thing.

Holding sand to fall
And projecting sorrow –
Which in itself is beauty –
Onto these disappearing grains.

And disappearing is the perfect word
For the sand falling from my palms.

Dis a ppea ring

It sounds like sand falling on sand
And feels like the coming of the end.
And tonight
Fifty years later
On Macrahanish beach
The ocean is out there
And

it

is

Beautiful.

I’ve held onto a little
piece of you
my whole life.

Like you were drowning
in modernity.
But clearly now I see
the only one drowning
in love
was me.

I thought it was a beginners run
but it was black.

Next thing a slope, a drop,
a ramp, a rock
and I’m in air

tumbling

dependent on nothing.
And there’s my skis above
and then the blue sky
extended into
a kind of forever.

It was clear grace
before I had to cover my head
and drop through space
to the rocks.

But that moment looking up
through skis, sky and silence
was an unveiling:

grief and sadness,
laughter, joy and deep despair;
all are gifts,
presents,
little parcels of life,
hauling us back
to the holy moment.

When I look up through trees
my troubles ebb away.

Is this because branches are cages
and the blue means bursting through?

Or intimations of infinity
in simple twigs
and a gull hovering on thermals?

Or is there a God
requiring neck cricked back looking up
to the undeniable?

Is it the trees themselves?
Surrounding. Protecting me
from sky coming in
and in
and in
till part of me
is part of Him.

We can imagine people places and things,
events in time present future and past.
We think our thoughts are locked inside our heads.

But we are mirrors of the universe.

We are exploded through cosmos,
mass and consciousness,
perceiving objects as tight
and jammed on Earth.

But they are ghosts,
these lobsters and giraffes
and Earth herself,
composed of grid reference points
in the typography of divinity.
We join the dots
with lines of the blind.

And us?

We were everything and nothing all the time.

The last seal slips into the sea
then there’s nothing till Ireland
rises, many miles away.

Most of the world is water.
Most of hearts are rock.
Much of our mind subconscious.
discharging bullets of thought.

As my paddle breaks the surface, silver
seals bob up; bonded energies pulsing
and I sense a new reality stirring
always from down the deep belows.

There is a subtle purity to a person who prays. I’m not refering to the kind of praying that is found in the public pews of protestantism, or the violent beseeching of charismania. Rather, I’m speaking of the quiet solace and invocation of intimate communion. There are no time tables, there are no ritualistic platitudes. It is just simply, direct, conversation between one trapped by both time and sin and the other who redeems the prisoner from his cell.

Prayer is a gateway to all other graces under heaven. It is an open and unlocked door, of which today I think few care to venture through. Yet, there it remains for the few who do embark on this journey of sublime discovery. Prayer does so much more than bespeak an answer to a problem. It is more than the request of a thing or an action or a counterweight against evil (or that which is so preceived). Prayer is the mechanism of transformation, of sanctification – the process of making the common something uncommon. It is the revealing of the Sons of God.

If one wishes to discover, to taste the fountain of God’s water, from which He spoke, “…whoever drinks of the water that I shall give him will never thirst. But the water that I shall give him will become in him a fountain of water springing up into everlasting life..” (John 4:14).

There is no sanctification without prayer. There is no prayer unless it is genuine, behind closed doors and fervent, continual, frequent and all increasing. I pray because I thirst. And the more I pray, the more that mysterious fountain is plumbed in us.

Let us acknowledge that prayer is the doorway to the other graces. It is the first and the fundamental, the essential and the absolute of spiritual growth. May we continually be drawn back to our closets.

The more I stare
and breathe

in

and out

the more I see that

these rhododendron flowers
come out of nothing.

I imagine my brother

passing

maybe

the same kind of bush
a hundred miles north

putting down his wine
on my in breath.
His sadness flee away as he looks at
these flowers that bloom out nothing.

The last seal slips into the sea
then there’s nothing till Ireland
rises, many miles away.

Most of the world is water.
Most of hearts are rock.
Much of our mind subconscious.
discharging bullets of thought.

As my paddle breaks the surface, silver
seals bob up; bonded energies pulsing
and I sense a new reality stirring
always from down the deep belows.

Stars and worlds are tragic sparks above the
moonlight waiting. The saddest night ever
I knew since my body started breathing.
False Christian wind it pins the sins of man
onto a world of black and stars above
the shining moon refracted thorough a tear.
For you are with me all this time. For you
are in me time in time. And I walk this

empty shore desperate to rub you from
my mind the pain of loss somehow sublime.
Oh, I love you more than any more can say
and all the words that slash and sting my way.
Forever day to night then night to day
and all things light and dark must pass away.

A horse, intent on eating my jacket
rubs a nose(which looks like another beast)
up and down my jumper. I feed it grass.
A young foal lies in the sun. Its mother
swings her head and stares at me, just in case.
Two fish plash the loch sending archways
of water into sky. The coot of Coots
silver water laps lonesome on the shore.

As a boy I walked here but had no words
to put to it. The trees; wave after wave
of greenness, two crows flapping by the moon.
Midges and duck quacks infest the dark woods.
Two swans slide by. So here I am again
on the ash track round Drumpellier Loch.

The flashing cars’ chromium and fancy
lights on the other side reach me before
the shards of the horn. They cannot know
who I am, for I don’t. Rhododendron,
you are in another land flowering
purple all over the place and white blooms
where it matters. Like me, us, in Scotland
flowering green white and gold and blue in May.

And the ash path round the loch reminds me
of my young tape-recorder mind grabbing
snizzing vivid images into my
wet young brain; eager to see, not to learn;
as learning goes in schools. And I knew then
of things outside the creeping scope of man.

Me and Stevie Gallacher did wander
not talking, walking, walking and seeing
and learning things that I will never forget.
For I cling to them in times of sorrow;
of joy; of openness…the something that
can’t be explained that I try to explain
to you by not explaining. I imply.
For sometimes in the telling truths, I lie.

The half moon, sitting in a mash of clouds
and I am content in my jagged life
as if I slipped past every rusting nail
on an Indian fakirs bed and lie
on the wood by some lucky outside chance;
free tonight from all the pains and piercing

This wood and marshland moor is like a foam
cushion to the noises of myriad
birds on the calm loch. The other people
those on the other side come here at night
boy hunting girl hunting drugs. Sticky air
is always full of sex. And I, I am
potent with questions; tugging God’s good sleeve
half formed answers falling from his sky.

The loneliness of life amuses
me tonight in an enchantment out from
disenchantment, the puzzle is gone through
acceptance. I accept fate like a stone
dropped in a deep black loch where light
gets forever darker and disappears.

I’m forever giving in to nights
it’s the only way to take it away.
Someone stands at the far end of this long
straight path and stares at me far far too long.
Are they afraid? Do they somehow think they
know me? They can’t know me because I don’t.
Deciding something dangerous I walk.
And all to birds and trees and stones I talk.

These woods are the classrooms of my youth,
like books pored over, fairy tales, fairies;
leprechauns we brung go bombing along
in the trees, they are all still with me now.
Through all those nails I kept them as if I
had too; as if I need to, in exile.

The leaves of a young Maple rattle out
a windsong above the sleepy hemlock.
Two crows are back, flying purple kisses
splashed on pastel shades of orange sky
and red, June is a calm month at night
in the woods, in the trees, on the dark road.
If I was a tree I’d live here for sure.
Where nights are lit by starshine; air is pure.

There’s something nice about pissing in woods,
the cool wind against your cock and urine
splashing on the grass. Its nothing sexual
mind. Its just the freedom of being able
to do what you have to without hiding
part of who you are from the other ones.

The sudden quiet of birds precedes a
conversation coming along on ten
or twelve young neds and nedesses laughing.
Wildlife, wildlife everywhere and not
a beast doth squeak, nor move, nor sniff, nor scratch.
I wish I was them. I wish I was them;
laughing, not buried in Tape Recorder Road
tape-recording my head. I smoke again

and in modesty curse God for giving
me a mind too big for my head to cure.
And searching it one day might make me dead.
I move my thoughts from my face as they pass.
They’re wild, I’m weird, we belong in this place
of paranoia and mutual fear.

Only a madman would walk about these dark
woods at night now with all the animals
and I impress myself because in all
this time and all these words I have never
mentioned Erin once, even though I want to
and don’t want to; I’ve balanced somewhere safe.
To feel her name pursed and curled on
my lips and not say it causes me pain.

So I roll up another cigarette.
A hundred crows and one fly over my head;
a cawing racket of hellish noises
as if they are trying to frighten me.
A pleasing pang of death comes in my heart.
Nothing. They are silent now and grey skies.

The turning moon flecks the branches of trees.
Beyond, my four green fields, I see you shine;
my hope and glory and the trees are all
things in between you and me on this path,
forest bound, tangled up in branches and
just no thinking on what they are doing
and I just can’t make it over to you
so that your light may warm upon my face

and your arms may encircle me in love
and we may be again the sun and the moon
together although the trees seem to think
that the universe would end. I whisper
your name and it becomes the wind moving,
gently at first, rolling up to a rush,

rattling the leaves on the twigs, out,out,out
over the loch towards you as your moon
goes down and I fire myself into your
light not afraid of dying only to
be with you; one love, in one universe;
one hope fading as the moon melts silver
on the ridges of the hills your body
is behind and over them out of view

till all I see is a white glow where you
once where. And me in the blue of the cold
and the green of the leaves turning to black
and the trees still between us even though
you are gone, never to be by my side.
The ocean’s too deep; the river too wide.