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To be awake to the miracle of being in nature— that is enough, for now

April 21, 2013

The stack of books by my bed reflect my dual Gemini nature. There is a copy of There are No Accidents: Synchronicity and the Stories of Our Lives, by Robert H. Hopcke, a Jungian psychotherapist who explores all the unexplainable events and curious coincidences that happen in the course of our lives. And, on the opposite end of the spectrum, there sits Why People Believe Weird Things: Pseudoscience, Superstition, and Other Confusions of Our Times, by Michael Shermer, PH.D., the founding publisher of Skeptic magazine, the director of the Skeptics Society (www.skeptic.com), and a contributing editor of Scientific American.

Living here in the Ojai Valley, a hotbed of every belief under the sun, my inquiring, incredulous mind likes investigating both views—the rational and irrational. Back in 1957, when my family was still in Holland and in the process of emigrating to America, my dad told my mom he had a dream about orange orchards. Sometime after this dream, he received a telegram saying that we were going to a place in California called Ojai. My dad still remembers how when our sponsor drove us to our house in the east end, he recognized the orange groves he had seen in his dream.

If you look around, you’ll see that there is no end to the things that people believe in. At around age fourteen I began to question the dogma of the church I was raised in. And now I question the popular belief that there are no victims, that everything that happens is a “soul choice”— for the greater evolution and understanding of the soul. My rational mind cannot fathom how the eight-year-old boy who was blown up in the bomb blast in Boston was making a soul choice —and all the other people blown up elsewhere on the planet that same day.

When I consider the enormity of the suffering and atrocities that have occurred over the centuries, both in the human and animal kingdom, and the magnitude of what is going on in our era, I ask myself, “If it’s true that we’ve all lived many lifetimes, and if we learn from experience, why aren’t we more enlightened by now?”

For me, at this point in life, at the end of nine seven-year cycles (63 years) on the planet, I don’t know anything. And the more I embrace this feeling of not-knowing, the more open I feel to the great mystery that is life.

Tonight, when I walked the river bottom with my pack of dogs, and I saw the fuzzy black caterpillars crawling on the dry dirt path . . . when I saw the shiny black “stink” bugs moving along . . . and when I saw the white and brown flecked birds swooping bravely in front of us, trying to lure us away from their nests. . . and when my eyes caught the incredible ever-changing light that is the gift after sunset as the days grow longer . . . and when I looked up and saw the coming of the soon-to-be full moon, I said to myself, “This is enough.”

To be awake to the miracle of being in nature— that is enough, for now.

“It is a bit embarrassing to have been concerned with the human problem all one’s life and find at the end that one has no more to offer by way of advice than ‘try to be a little kinder’.” ––Aldous Huxley

Tags:journal writing, nature, Ojai, outdoors, writing yoga
Posted in Life in Ojai, New Memoir Chapters, Yoga Writing Memoir | 2 Comments »

“I hope they cover me up when I go!”

April 15, 2013

When I moseyed over to my parents’ house tonight, I found my dad in turmoil. “Mam lost her partials,” he said. “She had all her teeth in at breakfast. We’ve looked for them all day, in all the obvious places: her pockets, underneath everything. . . I brought the trash barrels back from the end of the driveway. In the morning I’m going through both cans.”

I got on my hands and knees and looked all around my mom’s easy chair. I remembered how other elders I used to care for would lose their teeth, glasses, and hearing aids, and how they would turn up in the bottom of an old bathrobe pocket, their purse, or wrapped in a Kleenex and tucked somewhere hidden from view.

My mom thought all the fuss was very funny. She joked that she could eat just fine with half her teeth missing, and that she couldn’t understand why my dad was so agitated. While I was looking behind photographs and other odd places, I suddenly heard her shout from her bedroom, “I found them!” I went to the bedroom, where she was holding a first aid kit. And, sure enough, there were the partials, wrapped in a napkin and tucked away amidst the bandaids. She promptly put them in her mouth and went back to the living room to show my dad.

Well, you never saw my dad so happy. All evening long he praised me, saying over and over, “Something you said triggered her memory.” He was so relieved not to have to go through the trash first thing in the morning.

We had one of the best evenings ever, talking about everything under the sun, including plans for their 65th wedding anniversary in August. My dad has been living with prostate cancer for five years now; he feels the side effects of the various drugs he’s taking, such as the rash on his upper body. We talked about some of the younger men we both know who’ve died from the same disease, including his neighbor. So he’s extra grateful to enjoy his walks, his naps in the sun. . . and he speculates that perhaps taking care of “Mam” is what keeps him going.

During most of the visit, I’m also doing my yoga practice. First seated poses, so I could give my mom my full attention. But then I couldn’t resist lying backwards over one of their cushy chairs. At first my mom threatened to kick me out if I didn’t get back up. So I said, “You better call 911! I can’t get back up!” “It serves you right,” she responded with a laugh. The padded chair felt fantastic and allowed me to stretch and relax and listen to my mom’s Sunday night guitar concert till the very end of the program. She really likes it when I hang out and listen to music with her. After awhile she resigned herself to my strange positions.

When I finally got out of the chair backbend, I did a couple of chair twists. Then I warned her that I was going to do something dangerous, which she found very humorous. I walked up the side of the door frame and kicked up into a handstand. “Make her stop!” She begged my dad, half joking and half serious.

While this was going on, my dad was talking about heaven and how he’s looking forward to seeing his mother. He reminded me that he never got to see her after the Americans freed him from the Japanese prison camp. “We bypassed Indonesia. From Japan we went to Australia and then to Holland. My mother died in 1957—the same year that we came to Ojai and were living on Thacher Road.”

“Yes, Suzan,” he reminded me,”life goes by so fast. Even if I live to be a hundred, it’s just the twinkling of an eye. . . and maybe it’s a good thing you are not burdened by material things . . . Naked we come, and naked we go.”

To which my mom added, with a laugh, “I hope they cover me up when I go!”

Tags:earthly concerns, journal writing, writing yoga
Posted in death and dying, elder care, father daughter relationships, Life in Ojai | Leave a Comment »

It remains to be seen if I’ve gone off the deep end

April 12, 2013

It remains to be seen if I’ve gone off the deep end or if I’m thinking outside the box. I’m so desperate to have a writing room again—a space where I can leave projects “cooking” and not have to put all the papers away—that I’ve emptied the kitchen cupboards of all the pots and pans and other stuff I’ve hardly used since I moved here last fall and converted the kitchen into an office.

I halfheartedly tried this a few weeks ago—kind of like an office with a kitchenette– but the cats sat (and threw up) on everything, and the dirty dishes piled up with nowhere to go. So I gave up and went back to movable-office mode.

It’s a challenge to write, teach, and live in a small space with five or more animals. But I feel a heightened intensity to get my next book done. If I must make a sacrifice I’ll give up cooking and dish washing—not writing and yoga.

It’s not a cook book, but I feel like I’m gonna cook a book!

Tags:journal writing, writing yoga
Posted in Life in Ojai, New Memoir Chapters, Yoga Writing Memoir | Leave a Comment »

The promise of rain hangs over the Ojai Valley

March 31, 2013

The promise of rain hangs over the valley. The purple lupine looks so happy on this cool, hazy, cloudy Easter morning. It would be sacrilegious not to honor the goddess Eostre by skipping out in nature. Honey is already so wild with excitement I can hardly leash her. So, to celebrate, Honey, Nubio, Chico, and I head for the gate. I remove the leash and Honey stampedes out into the wild like a racehorse, with the energy of a herd of wild buffalo unpenned, running neck and neck with Nubio, and with poor little Chico scrambling to keep up.

Chico comes back panting—he’s had enough. Quacking ducks fly overhead, and I realize that maybe I let the dogs get too close to the water. I call Honey back; she’s caked in mud. I leash her as we walk toward the reservoir, toward the lilting, haunting sound of birds calling, toward the symphony of living, holy water. My Pentecostal background rears its head and I consider baptizing myself, but the day is too cold. Instead, I wade into the mossy cool water, close my eyes, and listen to the water’s song . . . The running stream tapping rocks reminds me of the Indonesian bamboo xylophone . . . I hear the music of the gamelan. The Balinese in me could take a bath here; it would be like an ancient spring rite. I hesitate, and the urge passes.

As we walk, my eyes drink in the soft greens of every hue, from light to dark. With Easter on my mind the river bottom feels like an enchanting Easter basket. The light keeps changing—now brighter, now darker—and streaks of clear blue sky appear and disappear. The sun peeks out and the promise of rain seems to evaporate, but then a few drops fall. I feel the bliss of creation.On the way back, I see bright orange sun-drenched California poppies. And then I remember how we came to Ojai in March of 1957, and how my middle sister and I picked poppies and other wildflowers and put them in little vases on the table to surprise my mom before Easter Sunday breakfast. I remember feeling alarmed when some tiny bugs ran from the flowers onto the table . . .

We walk past the scents of jasmine and orange blossoms. The jasmine grows on the fence around the orange orchard. The light has changed again . . . the sky grows dark . . . we caught the bright Easter morning just in time.

It’s raining!

Tags:journal writing, nature, Ojai, outdoors, writing yoga
Posted in Life in Ojai, Yoga Writing Memoir | 1 Comment »

Let spring set my soul free

March 29, 2013

Honey

The thing that stops us dead in our tracks is getting sick, whether it’s mild or serious. And it turns out that the twisting and turning I’ve been feeling in my gut is food poisoning. Turns out that my friend who ate the exact same thing when we went out for lunch has had the exact same symptoms and is just bumbling along, just like me.

After two days of collapsing in bed, slipping in and out of a healing coma, and reading two books—when I finally realized that it wasn’t just going away and that I’d better gather my energy and get out in nature with Honey and Chico—I found the strength to walk the creek bed and let nature have her way with me.

Whenever I’m sick, my thoughts turn to death. I realized that if this were my last spring all I would really want to do is escape into nature. I’ve done my part, I’ve given freely of my life energy, and now I want a spring break—is that too much to ask of life?

So I went walking and walking, to places I haven’t been to in a long time. I found a secret oasis where water gurgles so sweetly I just wanted to slip away into the life of a hobo or a wandering sadhu . . .

Honey and Chico had a long drink. We sat together on a rock, water flowing all around. It fascinates me how my hyper Honey can sit so still, completely in the moment. If I could tap into her consciousness I would smell every weed, every seed, every flower, every coyote and rabbit hidden in the brush. I would hear the song of the gurgling brook, the call of every bird, every frog. I would see every small movement . . . nothing would escape my keen senses. I would leave the heavy dull human consciousness in the dust. I would feel spring rising in every vein of every leaf, and flowing in my blood. I’d feel the force of spring stronger than the earthly pull of my little human identity. I would say, “Computer, get thee behind me and let spring set my soul free.”

Tags:dogs, earthly concerns, journal writing, nature, outdoors, writing yoga
Posted in death and dying, Life in Ojai, Yoga Writing Memoir | Leave a Comment »

The full moon is here again

March 26, 2013

The full moon is here again; she has not peaked yet, but rose white and silent in the still blue sky. First almost hidden in the misty evening clouds, rising higher, the sky lit up with strange streaks, the horizon all aglow in gold and red hues, stark black birds soaring overhead . . . a little dance where just for a moment the small human is aware that she is standing in between the rising moon and setting sun—a tiny, alive, aware speck in the cosmos. A little later the moon comes into her own, lit from within like a gold lantern shining brighter and brighter . . . and now the landscape is black and she’s all aglow, the reigning queen of the Valley of the Moon.

Tags:circle of the moon, journal writing, nature, Ojai, outdoors, writing yoga
Posted in Life in Ojai, Yoga Writing Memoir | Leave a Comment »

The wind is howling

March 22, 2013

The wind is howling in the river bottom, sweeping the sky crystal clear. You can see the moon shining brighter, getting fuller, the stars are all atwinkle, the air electric, the trees bending and swaying—hanging on for dear life. Tonight the wind seemed to come suddenly, out of nowhere. It started blowing like crazy while it was still light, as I was teaching. It flew through the room, energizing everything, and it just keeps getting wilder. Keep the windows wide open, let the curtains flutter . . . let the magic in!

Tags:circle of the moon, journal writing, nature, outdoors, writing yoga
Posted in Life in Ojai, New Memoir Chapters, Yoga Writing Memoir | Leave a Comment »

“Angel Baby” now playing at the Ojai Frostie

March 17, 2013

Try as I might to live in the present, whenever I ride past the Nordhoff campus and see those classrooms where I once sat trapped behind a desk, I still have flashbacks to the adolescent days of this dream of life. This really hit home yesterday when I got off my bike to walk through the parking lot just east of my old school and suddenly heard that haunting hit song from the ’60s, “Angel Baby” by Rosie and the Originals:

It’s just like heaven
Being here with you
You’re like an angel
Too good to be true

It stopped me dead in my tracks. That song is so mesmerizing. It puts you right into a hormonal coma where you just want to slow-dance into a wonderful, romantic dream.

For a moment I felt disoriented, as I realized I had inadvertently walked into some sort of Friday night oldies but goodies gathering at the new location of the Ojai (O-Hi) Frostie. Maybe it was my imagination, but it seemed there were all sorts of familiar faces standing around cars and sitting at the little outdoor tables eating burgers and fries.

I wanted to turn around and bolt, but it was too late—I was too close to the crowd. Heck, even Janis Joplin was not herself at her high school reunion . . . why should I berate myself for suddenly feeling painfully shy and out of place?

I found my legs, smiled, and tried to view the scene like an anthropologist. Just glancing quickly, I noticed that some of the women looked like they had the old high school hairdos, the kind you get from big rollers and hair spray. Several had managed to keep their svelte figures and were looking good in jeans, and I overheard one saying, “That song takes you right back.”

Yes, indeed it does!

For a brief moment I wanted to test the confidence I’ve gained through the years, park my bike, order a veggie burger, and sit down and socialize like a normal person. But I had to get cat and dog food at Vons and pedal home before dark. So I kept on walking, with “Angel baby, my angel baby, ooh ooh I love you” playing in my head.

I crossed over into the Vons parking lot, and the first thing I noticed was one of the checkers sitting on a bench, smoking and sipping a soft drink. I can just imagine how tired her legs must get, standing still for hours on end, smiling at every customer, and compelled to ask “How are you?” even as your feet are killing you.

Beneath the Disneyland veneer of Vons I saw how hard life is, even in this mecca of plenty . . . the constant struggle to make ends meet, and how quickly it all passes. And suddenly there you are in a nursing home, with someone changing your diapers and the TV still blaring even as you expire.

All the stages of life converge at Vons: the moms with their kids piling boxes of Trix and gallons of cheap, watery milk in their carts, one small kid clutching a huge frozen pizza, older folks deciding which cans of soup . . . everybody stocking up on beer, chicken, and chips for the weekend. While I piled a stash of Fancy Feast and Newman’s Own organic cat food into my cart I noticed a Hispanic man studying all the choices of toilet paper. Five minutes later, when I walked past that same aisle, he was still there, trying to decide which rolls are the best buy.

When I see families walking up and down the aisles of endless, ever-increasing, out-of-control, obscene choices of mostly junk food, I wonder if they feel as bewildered as my immigrant family felt when we first shopped in an American market. In our first years here, my dad worked odd jobs, mostly as a gardener, and I was aware how poor we were, watching every penny; every item purchased was carefully chosen. One hot day my dad went to great trouble finding the best buy on the biggest glass jug of apple juice that would last our family of five for a week. I still remember how my two younger sisters and I watched my dad pouring the juice with thirsty anticipation—and how he spat it out across the room. That cheap jug of apple juice turned out to be apple cider vinegar!

On the way out I noticed the displays of giant chocolate Easter bunnies: rows of huge dark-brown rabbits. Even the Easter bunny has gotten way bigger over the years! Glancing at all the Easter stuff, I remembered a Buddhist teacher saying how life is like a broken record and we play the same song over and over again. I unlocked my bike, loaded up the baskets, walked past the acres of cars, and took in the still-light sky above and glorious panoramic views in all directions. Suddenly everything felt spacious. Angel Baby had disappeared into the basement of my head. I was back in the present, pedaling past meadows blooming with wildflowers . . . A car pulled up, and the couple inside asked me if I knew where the Ranch House restaurant was. I pointed them in the right direction. They thanked me and said “Have a beautiful ride.”

And I did!

Note: After I posted this on Facebook a friend wrote, “There WAS a tailgate party, old convertibles, big hair, grey and white hair, trays and burgers—had the same experience going to the bank next door–big portable speakers out front of Ojai Frostie.”

Rosie and The Originals

Angel Baby http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9xm3qnh1sck

It’s just like heaven
Being here with you
You’re like an angel
Too good to be true

But after all
I love you i do

Angel baby
My angel baby

When you are near me
My heart skips a beat
I can hardly stand on
My own two feet

Because i love you
I love you i do

Chorus:
Angel baby my angel baby
Ooh ooh i love you
Ooh ooh i do
No one can love you
Like i do
Ooh ooh ooh ooh
Ooh ooh ooh ooh ooh

Please never leave me
Blue and alone
If you ever go
I’m sure you’ll come back home

Because i love you
I love you i do

(chorus)

Rosie & the Originals – Angel Baby

classic hit

Tags:journal writing, writing yoga
Posted in Life in Ojai, Yoga Writing Memoir | 2 Comments »

Saturday night with Ojai Ranch House date nut bread (If you think you’ve changed, go visit your parents)

March 10, 2013

Last night I felt the edge of solitude turn into Saturday night loneliness. The room that looks so bright and inviting when the sunlight pours in looked dim and dismal. The motivation to write seemed sucked out of me. I decided I needed human company and a change of scenery, so I went to visit my parents.

My good intentions ended up in my revisiting an old fight with my father.

When I arrived, the living room curtains were closed but the lights were on, so I knew they were up. I went around back and stood on a chair so I could look through the kitchen window into the rest of the house and spy on them. I could see my mom dozing in her easy chair. A wave of nostalgia rose up in me. Someday, maybe soon, I’ll look at that chair that she practically lives in and she won’t be there. And by then my dad, too, will likely be gone.

So I go back around to the front of the house and knock loudly on the window, right by where she’s sitting. “Who is it?” my mother exclaims, pulling back the curtain. “Oh, it’s Suzan! Do you need a place to spend the night?” she asks, laughing. She leans into her walker, hoists herself upright, and opens the door.

The scene is always the same. My dark-brown Indonesian dad, wearing his faded checkered robe, is lying back in his easy chair at the far end of the room, reading a Louis L’Amour Western novel or a book about Armageddon or heaven. My pale-white Dutch mom sits in her chair near the front door reading one of her Spanish books or the same pages of a National Geographic magazine over and over again. They are both so thin—each probably under a hundred pounds. And the more skeletal they turn, the more they delight in joking that I’m gaining weight again.

All goes well for the first half hour. I sit on the floor in front of my mom’s chair in various yoga poses and entertain her with excerpts from National Geographic and jokes about life. My dad loves it when I amuse her so he can read uninterrupted.Then he puts down his book and asks if I know what’s happening with the Golden State Water buyout. His water bill on his Pauline Street property is over $200. This innocent conversation about the water bill slowly trickles into dangerous political ground. My old Republican dad starts going on and on about how Ojai doesn’t need any more low-income housing, how people on HUD are taking advantage of the system, how the Hispanic population is taking over because they don’t use birth control, how his property taxes just keep going up and up because of government aid to all these lazy people, and “Why should I pay more taxes when I no longer have children going to school?”

And suddenly the adolescent in me that ran away from home at age sixteen can’t take it any more. I point out that my dad’s youngest daughter, the apple of his eye, the one who can do no wrong, has five children. She didn’t use birth control, so why is he pointing the finger at others who have more children than they can afford? I also point out that his grandchildren and great grandchildren go to public school, and that the government is helping to support the baby born to my youngest sister’s teenage daughter.Raising my voice, I say, “But Dad, what if you hadn’t helped Paula build a house? What if you didn’t subsidize her rent? What if you hadn’t supported her for all these years? Not everyone has parents to help them . . . “It’s like talking to a rock. All my arguments that it benefits society as a whole to make sure everyone has adequate housing and food fall on deaf ears.

He says, “Suzan, I want you to promise that when you go to those city meetings you won’t be sentimental. You need to keep an open mind and think rationally. When I came to this country I never asked the government for any help. I worked hard and took care of my own.”We’ve had this same fight a thousand times. I know it’s a hopeless altercation, but it’s all so unfair and infuriating the way my dad supports my youngest sister, all the while raging against government handouts and blatantly insisting, “I love all my daughters equally.”

1956. A Diets-Vermeer family photo taken in Den Haag, Holland, a few months before destiny brought us to Ojai, California, the land of sunshine and orange orchards

We yell back and forth for a few more minutes, just like old times. As Ram Dass or some other hip spiritual teacher has said, “If you think you’ve changed, go visit your parents.”Finally I regain my wits and lean over to kiss my father on his forehead. “Dad,” I say, “I love you. Let’s just agree to disagree.”

Then I go to the kitchen, open the fridge, and cut myself three thick slices of Ranch House date nut bread. I swipe three slices of Havarti cheese for my dogs, who are waiting in my borrowed car because my dictator dad doesn’t allow them in the house. I rummage in the cupboard and swipe a can of Trader Joe’s unsalted tuna for my cats. I wrap it all up and stuff everything in my coat pocket. I hug my mom goodbye and bolt into the night. When I open the car door, the dogs are overjoyed about the cheese. Before driving off, I unwrap one of the slices of date nut bread, and laugh as I see how pathetic I am and how little it takes to console me.

Tags:journal writing, writing yoga
Posted in elder care, father daughter relationships, Life in Ojai, New Memoir Chapters, Yoga Writing Memoir | 3 Comments »

Sometimes making life more difficult for yourself saves the life of another

March 1, 2013

February 27, 2013

My standards for clean have never been high, but this winter things reached an all-time low. The only thing that keeps hope alive as I survey the futility of it all is the awareness that spring is coming and soon it will be warm enough to banish all the four-leggeds to the outdoors. I’m already cooking up a plan for sleeping under the stars, to trick them into thinking that living close to nature is the new normal.
Last night, just when I thought I could finally detach from it all and escape into the alternate universe of some yoga magazines (with their nude yoginis wearing only toe “soxs” and glossy ads for Karmalicious shoes, Earth-friendly Subarus, and yoga festivals that look suspiciously like scenes out of the Pentecostal revival tents I attended in my early teens), I saw that Priscilla had thrown up into the crevices of the bottom frame of the sliding glass door. In order to slide the door closed, I had to get out of bed and start the day all over again. I also removed three ticks from Honey’s head that I only noticed when I petted her good night.

Back under the covers, I opened the current Yoga Journal to a promising article entitled “Yogic Wisdom for Decluttering Your Life.” It was all about cleaning and clearing your abode, getting rid of crap you don’t need, getting your finances under control, and, above all, managing your time.The opening paragraph said, “For true clarity of mind and heart, shine the light of awareness on your habits and clean up your life.” Well, I readily admit that I need help in that department. So I read on, and came to the part that said, “In the face of any challenge, yoga teaches you to pause and look at the source of your problems.”Well, that was easy. The sources of all my problems were sprawled on my bed, sleeping on my pillows and snoring under the covers, totally oblivious of the endless expense, wasted time, and trouble that they cause! They were to blame for the dirty floors andpaw prints on window sills, the kibble residue and stinky kitty litter, the messy clutter of leashes, dog toys, old bones, pet carriers, and piles of dirty towels (Chico pees indoors when he finds the exit blocked) . . . and the financial drain of vet bills, pet shampoo, cleaning supplies, and all those mouths to feed.

At the end of the yogic wisdom article came this recommendation: “Ask yourself, with each decision you take, ‘Is this making my life easier or more difficult?’ ”

I get the point. I’m all for simplifying one’s life. But it’s a good thing that those who rescued Honey from death row didn’t ask those kinds of questions. Sometimes making life more difficult for yourself saves the life of another. And, luckily, cleanliness is not next to godliness. And, sometimes clean enough is good enough!

Tags:dogs, earthly concerns, journal writing, writing yoga
Posted in Doga Writing Memoir, Life in Ojai, New Memoir Chapters, Yoga Writing Memoir | 1 Comment »

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