misplaced mama

Los Angeles, CA will always be home.  I will admit I am one if it’s lost angels, rambling, wandering, artist-types who spent years searching the smog-infested sky for any thing close to a semblance of a star and digging my toes in warm Malibu sand, hesitant to dive into the toxic waters.  It’s the place where a big circle dwells, the friends who watched me/held me through all my metamorphosis and helped clean up my chrysalis when I eventually morphed.  I love it there.  I hate it there.  I long for the colors, of the city, splashed on buildings and bridges.  I miss the cute Japanese girls who hang downtown with their sharp style and fantastic shoes.  I miss that dude Joe who used to play the guitar on my corner. I miss hearing the hot buttered corn man and I miss Cafe Tropical guava and cheese pies, and the dog park up the street from where I used to live.  I miss the music.  The old and new culture.  I miss Abbot Kinney in Venice. I miss taking photos of Watts Towers.  I want to spend hours searching the racks at Squaresville, a thrift store I die for.  I wish I could stroll around Echo Park with my dogs.  I do not miss things like the land around Griffith Park burning up to  bits and forcing the sky into an apocalyptic purply-pink.  I do not miss the sweaty, freaky, good for nothing traffic. I do not miss all the parking tickets that sneak into my glovebox while living there. I do not miss the egos or the filthy-ass air. I do not miss hipster, but I do miss all the hot men.

I really miss the people I personally get to adore write L.A, CA on their return address. 

But I get lucky enough to visit now and then.

Just got back from a great visit with my sister who lives in Southern Cali and parents (who were at my sisters while I was there and who are now in Scottsdale visiting with me).  I also got to be part of a really sweet blessing for my girl, Leigh Ann, before she has babylove number 2.

Some snippets from a fun fast trip. 

One Fresh One Wise

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My daddy is almost eighty years old.  When I was little I used to pray that he would be around when I had babies.  Not only is he around, be he acts like a little kid with my kids; giggly, tickely, silly.  They love him because they get M n M’s from him, his secret bribe.  Which fumes me but the girls are more than pleased with the treats that seem to appear in their PaPa’s hands. And hell, they get to see him about twice a year so who gives a shit.   My father is passionate, strong and generous (and insane).  I am lucky to know him. I feel lucky that my girls get to hug him, kiss him and call him their PaPa.

My Mother and My Daughter 

Mimi and her Mia have an interesting relationship.  I can see that she sees me in my mom; knowing that I came from this ladies yoni a long time ago, she connects with her like a mother, which means she feels comfortable enough to be herself with her…I mean really herself. She loves her Mimi; listens intently and stares her in the eyes when she talks, tilts her head and takes in all the stories my mother shares with her.   Mimi tells her "super special secrets" (like saying Please and Thank You makes everyone feel really happy!)  and takes her out for ice cream dates and gives her ballerina panties.  To watch my mother and daughter together is one of the most precious, comforting sights for these eyes.  It is so healing for me. My parents gave birth to me much later in their lives, and I was the last little bit of baby-ness for them, after parenting 6 others. And now my daughter gets the purest form of my mother who was made to mother; the refined woman that she is; the fun-loving wise sprite that dwells in her heart; the woman who dances at Nordstroms (or tries to) to the painist who plays showtunes on the second floor. She is the woman who looks fresher and brighter and more connected to a source of love and peace the older she gets.  Age is truly being good to her.  I only hope that runs in the genes.

A Good Tree

There is this awesome tree in my sisters front yard.  It has branches growing up like air-roots. It’s skin is weathered, rough and strong.  not sure what kind of tree it is…perhaps a female Olive, but I am bad at tree-naming unless it’s a maple or a pine or a willow or an oak. There are a million places to sit, stand and jump from this tree.  The ultimate climbing tree. All kids need a tree like this to love.  Sula and Mia played in it all morning long. I wonder how many kids (beside the ones in may family) have received joy from this tree?

2 Fairies and A Buddha in Los Feliz

This is the girls with their new heart throb Emilio Lyon Stuart Alban.  He really, really rocks it.  I think that Sula has a serious thing for him, and I don’t blame her.  He’s handsome, peaceful, mellow and so smushy he’s may be edible.  I can’t believe what wisdom and grace surround this little boy.  I swear I was in the presence of a great one, someone who wanted to teach me something. But of course I am too dense to know what.  Until I figure it out though, I will remember him at this age, the first time I got to lay eyes on him and think, "how can such a little body hold such grand brilliance?"  Welcome to this world little man, you are indeed a good friend. 

 Courtney and Me.

 This is Emilio’s Mama, Courtney: Birth Warrior, Artistic Explosion, Gentle Mama.  She is a brilliant, forward-thinking, kind sister of mine.  We’ve seen eachother though hills and valleys and I feel her friendship deeply in my heart.   Her and I and another friend caravaned across a few states driving 3 different cars, a couple of boyfriends and 1 black lab and landed in Hollywood together back in 1997.  We got rid of the boys.  Age recently took old Puck, the dog, bless his soul.  But Courtney and me…we’ve been watered with time, cultivated and flourished in the form of patience and adventure; creativity and simplicity.  Respect.  Her sense of humor always pulls me back in my own body, reminding me to stay light.  I could sit outside against a snowy rocky mountain with her in or out on her back deck until the wee-hours and talk about the world, jumping back and forth from poverty to fashion, politics to mothering, music to yoga.   She a great story-teller capturing me with her words as well as the colors and shapes and soul and textures of people around the world she snaps with her magical camera.  I love her and we all got to stay at her royal abode on Los Feliz Blvd. this trip.  Couldn’t ask for anything more, especially since she lives walking distance to my favorite old market, Nature’s Mart. Plus I got to wake up seeing the face of her newborn.  What a true gift.

 My Hommies.

 These are my homegirls.  I can’t quite put my finger on why we have such a strong sisterhood hood, but let me try.  When I see rebecca’s face and that big smile, my whole word explodes with a rare kind of hope and excitement.   She is raw and honest and sweet like the cupcakes we share.  The first time I met rebecca we were in Fredonia, NY at her college apartment.  I was visiting Leigh Ann.  She walks in with bellbottom cords, a dreadlock in the back of her thick, shiny, to-die-for hair, ruby red lips and dark lined eyes.  She saunters, and I mean saunters over to me in a way only an amazingly sexy 19 year old could do and says, "wanna get high" (pot, my friends).  And I fell in love with her.  In my lovesick kind of way, I hoped that we could be friends forever.  And we are.  Leigh Ann, the blossoming beauty is the one who shared her with me and I am so grateful that she did that.  Rebecca hosted the blessing at her pad atop Mt. Washington, which vibrates with the daily meditation of about 100 nuns and monks from the Self Realization Center down the street from her.  It was perfect.

My Wild Chamomile

My heart.  My bestest girl in the world.  I watch you get bigger, not just with baby, but with spirit, with this boundless, positive, elastically ecstatic spirit.  You, my friend are surrounded by the color pink.  A shade of rose.  And this baby you hold inside is magic, wellness, health, joy.  I have always seen you as a mother, a grand nurturer; you always made sure I was safe and happy.  You, more than anyone else, watched me go down to the deepest and murkiest waters and you watched me soar with the eagles in lighted power.  And never once did you judge me in either place.  Now, I didn’t say you never told me exactly what was on your mind…because most of the time that is a true gift of yours, to just let it all out.  But other times, I see the wisdom you possess close inside to keep quiet when you don’t see the need for mere words.  Confrontation and debate is not your thing, instead you are Balance.  And you are the perfect scale for me.  For your husband.  For your children.  You see both ends, both sides and you weigh them, examine them, and feel them.  You become the middle ground which becomes relief and support and a path to greater understanding for those around you.  You are whispy and wild.  Kind and sassy.  Cherokee and free.  This life has blessed me with you.  Without your pink light (any other time when you are not holding a baby within, your light is ever so lightly yellow, like a buttercup) I would be blind, alone, lost.  You have been a key for me to find me.  You have been a road for me to follow.  You have been like a sign, displaying subtle yet poetic sensibilities about my next turn and twist and climb.  And although I may not be there with you for this babylove number 2 to emerge fluidly and gently from you, I am so there, breathing, rubbing, singing, smiling and cracking ridiculous jokes.  I am so there while the shower water pounds like a storm on your back opening up every cell of your body.  I am so there to stand as a guard and shield of empowerment while you wisely and powerfully give birth to your baby. You are giver of life.  A birth goddess.  I love that you say, "What’s the big deal?  People have babies." I love that you walk into a hospital and do. it. your. way.  I love that you will soon have 2 kids like me.  I love that you and I have held hands since we were 11.  I love that we know exactly where eachother come from. I love that we share exactly who we hope to grow into.  I love that you are so softly beautiful.  I love your hands. I love that you humor me when I act crazy. I love that our daughters will be best friends forever.  And most of all, I just utterly love you.

East Coast Baby

This is Ruby Malin Ferguson in her cocoon.  But Ruby came out of her mama, the bubble of fresh beauty, Joelin, a couple days ago.  I just missed her arrival, and haven’t seen a photo yet….but if she is anything like her mama and her daddy, Andy, she is super-duper-dope.  I mean super-duper. Ruby, can I tell you how amazing your mama is?  When I saw her with you in her belly, despite that you were about to come out any second, she was so comfy and cozy and at ease with herself and you.  She was so at peace with labor flashing it’s ‘big heavy stuff coming up ahead" lights in front of her, for the very first time.  Her confidence and inner-knowing impressed me beyond belief.  i remember how freaked out I was before I gave birth to Mia.  But not your mama.  She was cool as a cucumber and as smooth and vanilla pudding.  Oh, and did I mention she is outrageously beautiful?  Definitely a MILF.  And your dad?  How many kids can say their daddy is an acrobat?  Super-super dope. Can’t wait to meet you Ruby, little rockin’ East Coast Baby Gal living on the West side now.

The Circle

Our tight and loving circle of blessing and community.  Relaxed.  Easy like Sunday afternoon with bree and fruit and white wine.  Wise as ring of ancient storytellers sharing their chapters of life with Leigh Ann.  It was all free-form and because it was so small, it was so comforting to just gab away, bless away, laugh away…all the worries and stress and rejoice in new life, old friends, and a baby who is soon to come and be yet another teacher of the way of light and love.

Just Because

Just because this careless shot of Mia reminds me so much of me.  She stills my heart and quiets my mind and guarentees for me endlessness in a world with no guarantees.   

(Los Angeles, I refuse to come back to you.  But won’t you just think about coming to me?) 

We’ve been rocking a lot lately.  This stay at home mama business is really the best gift I have been given, but this suburban wasteland of my mind, with little to none funk creation is getting me down and I’m in need to Get Down. Soul. Funk. Punk. Ska. Reggae. Country. Polka. Who cares, just show me the way.  I did find a great little whole-in-the-wall club when Sister E was here visiting: GLAM.   Can you tell by the name the floors were lit with LED lights? We had a fabulous bartender named Veronika who hooked us up with love and spirits and I am pretty damn sure she had a penis underneath her cute black leather mini. She was rad and the place got me loose and it freed about a million worries I was holding on to while I  shuffle ball-changed and got as low as my short old legs could go.  Now I know some people out there think that going out dancing on an LED lit dancefloor to DJ’s spinning Funkmaster Flash and Eric B and Rakim with a lively Veronika filling me up on Guinness until 2am is NOT the place for a 33 year old married mother of two.  And most likely your right.  BUT not completely right that’s for sure, (you can take the girl outta hollywoood but don’t you ever try to take the hollywood outta the girl). A lady like me has got to dance, roll, and wind it up if she wants to feel like a free women…no?  I hope to be putting glitter on my brow and bangles on my arm and heading out to dancefloors my whole life.  Even if someone has to push me  there in a wheelchair. 

 Anyway, I have been aching for a bit of the old dance party and luckily I have two extremely rhythmic and soulful children who are game to transform our mornings into a danceparty USA of sorts.

We get up, eat big bowl mush with goat milk and maple syrup or oat pancakes with strawberries.  We sit for morning circle with our french doors open so the morning wind can come in and cool our skin and then we practice breathing (nothing like hearing Sula do Ujai breath) and we do one OM or a mantra of Mia’s choice, play (with) the Tibetan Singing Bowl, put our hand together in Anjali Mudra, and bow to each other in Namaste and then yell, "Let’s Live!"  A good way to start the morning.

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Then we ROCK.

We put on some loud music, usual a good shuffle of stuff and I head outside to attack the massive laundry build-up in the laundry room (yeah, outdoor laundry rooms are such a Phoenix thing, loads of fun in 115 degrees, lemme tell ya…), coming out with undies on my head and doing the Running Man to crack the girls up. Spraying the hose everywhere, they run around like banshees or pixies or mountains nymphs covering their limbs and bellies in paint.  Mia drags her little chair to the tree with the peace dove nest woven with sticks and our dog’s shedded hair and laundry lint. She tries to climb high enough to see if Mama Bird has laid anymore fragile eggs that always seem to end up as feral cat cuisine.  Sula struts and dips and twirls ’round and ’round, welcoming the morning sun in her own iridescent way, like a silky sheet of satin in the wind. I try to get a few Sun Salutations in for myself but when we rock it’s a bit hard to stay that focused…sometimes wild movement is the only way to get the sillies outta us, plus the girls like to climb up my back while stretch in Down Dog.  And then sometimes we just get filthy in the mud.

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I take each of these mornings as such blessed newness, fresh starts, small seeds planted soil. I watch the girls prance about, like glorious creatures that must have some from somewhere other than my insides. Our french doors open wide and the musical emissions wave through the too warm morning air, reminding us we are here to let loose and let go; to sip each moment in delight as the hummingbirds do with flower nectar.  Wandering to the garden we water our eggplant, tomatoes, artichokes, herb varieties, and cantaloupe.  We inspect every inch of our dirt waiting for our amazing little earth sprouts to grace us with their miraculous presence. So much life is growing through our method of just tossing and letting them land where they may.  Thus far that method has been my most successful. The morning music chore/play/danceparty/garden tending is the only way we can wade through the morning tide without the under-tow pulling us deep into tantrums, counter-climbing-searches for something sugary or begging for DVDs.  I am really, by nature, a pleasant person in the morning, but that stopped when I had kids.   Now I am a certified grumpus.  I gnarly monster.  A whiney, complainy, achy old piss.  So I have to have a morning plan to bring mama outta the junk, and it’s gotta be loud and fun.  This one seems to work.  For now.  For now I am grateful to climb out of bed and rejoice in the health and vibrancy in my life.

And here is what we have been rocking to:

Yazoo, Upstairs at Eric’s 

The first time I heard this album I was going into 8th grade.  I stole the vinyl version from my big sister and played it non-stop for a whole summer (that and Depeche Mode which were actually some, or at least one, of the same people if I’m not mistaken).  I will never forget that period in my life; it was so eighties…confusing, full of pressure and opposing forces of my spiritual side crashing into this new-to-me image conscious and material world; a world I was slowly becoming a part of.  That summer I got my first moon cycle, a boy kissed me for the first time that behind Rose’s Beauty Parlor on Barker Street and if I am not mistaken a bit later on that summer the same boy touched my breast OVER my Izod shirt. Yazoo’s  Only You…I don’t know why, but it helped me through it all, to gain some perspective on this new hormonal self; full of lust and angst, being pushed and pulled with the currants of conformity of adolescents yet struggling with my inner knowing I was never to conform or be part of the ‘group’.   I could lie on my bed and listen to this Euro-pop all day long, locking the real world out, doodling, writing, and dreaming.  I told Mia that this music was a favorite of mama’s when she was a "little-big girl" and I used to lie on my yellow comforter and look up at my white pop-corn ceiling and write in my journal and cuddle with my pillow and listen to it.  Now she begs for "Mommy’s music!!!"  So groovy and silly and Alison Moyet’s voice is hauntingly gentle and powerful.  Always giving me the chills.

 Unknown Title, 1998 Astralwerks Compilation

I cannot even explain the numbers of random compilations I received when I was doing music publicity and pr as well as writing reviews back in the old school days of Hollywood.  But this one is a GEM.  We are  obviously big-time lovers of the electronica scene, especially those golden-to me days in  LA and San Fran where you could get talked up off your couch and end up at a hole in the wall club with people dancing in sweatshirts and yoga pants and sneakers without pretense or a giving a damn about how they looked or who else was in the house.  They danced.  They contorted. They danced on one arm. They did yoga. And it was heavy, sweaty and I will say very spiritual, it was a church for many. I always amazing at the energy steaming from these places…the music was transforming into a new level of dancability, house meets ragga, hip-hop meets techno, drum n bass meets dub. These DJ’s and producers and supporters created a post-human bendabliity for so many free and loose folk; those longing for positive community and aware of the need for a cultural shift in the early 90’s.  And for those who saw this culture as being about the drugs…shame on them.  It was evolution and revolution.  Now it’s mainstream in so many parts of this country.  Pooey.  Anyway, Mia LOVES Fatboy Slim…early Slim who graces the last track on this CD with his god-like appeal.  Basement Jaxx, techchunky beats; I mean, who could sit still when they make such magic? Who?  The Chemical Brothers track is like a fine wine which will never go sour.  I  love explaining the history of this CD to Mia and telling her all about Mama going out dancing in velvet stretch pants which were really her PJ’s and a Nascar tank top and Adidas sneaks with Dada in tow and how Dada tried teaching mama The snake and to break dance on her back and roll her hips like him, but it was a total joke.  And then Mia will cut the rug and do some sassy-ass move and scream out "is this yoga or breakdancing?"  I tell her there isn’t much of a difference.  We crank this one loud and listen 2x in a row without even noticing.

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Manu Chao, Clandestino

I love him.  Roots sounds.  Such a visionary.  Spanish French World revolutionary Rock Reggae.  Mia likes it because we are trying to learn Spanish and she is so familiar with a reggae beat, that it speaks to her on her DNA level but with a bit of curiosity.  "What are they saying Mama?"  They are telling us basically to live good lives; live a life of freedom and love.  To live with respect.  To live.  I tell her that he traveled around the world with a portable studio, not unlike her daddy’s, and collected sounds from music-makers everywhere, he even collected sounds from the streets.  It’s great spring-summer music.  We like to garden to it.  Pick tomatoes and make a good pesto with sweet basil. Crack open a fizzy drink.  Twirl around slowly with someone you love.

The Bravery, The Bravery 

The girls and I got in the car one day and found this CD in the player.  Daddy aka The Sound Fairy sometimes leaves us musical treats to pleasure the souls of our ears. We jammed the first three tunes and found ourselves at our  destination when Mia and Sula begged, "Louder!! Louder!! Again!!  Rewind!!" Totally un-enviro friendly, we drove around a bit more to listen to the whole thing  (hey, in the name of rocking, anything goes). Bouncy, punky, poppy, totally poppy, catchy and it hits me in the gut for some reason.  It’s very 1980’s yet utterly and uniquely 2007.  Coming from an electro-wire laden root cellar, the music grows up and out with organic stringin’.  I love the lyrics…hopeful yet real.  The band was born from the surrounding fear and doubt and blood of post 9/11 New York.  They are definitely authentic and unique…yet familiar.  And within a blink of an eye away from creation in a grimy old apartment and a few ads on Craig’s list, they got a deal with DefJam/Island and that is not easy feat. The founder of the band, Sam Conway, says The Bravery is about this: Standing tall and not being afraid.  It’s about being brave.  

Faery Stories and Princess Stories From Around The World,  Barefoot Books.

Oh how we love storytelling CDs.  Since we have turned off DVD’s except for Friday night movie night (and an occasional You Tube viewing of The Smurfs and Cat In The Hat) storytelling CD’s keep the girls listening, wondering and imagining a world of words strung together like mystery.  The first has about 13 stories on faeries…all kinds of faery stories. And the princess one has tales about empowered princesses from all over the globe from Iroquois Nation to China.  The girlies often ask play it when they need that down time; when their eyes itch and their bodies ache and passively watching DVD’s gave them a moment of stillness, but now they get to be mellow while still creating a world on their own, in the their own minds, listening intently, but not watching anything but their imagination.  I like that.  Like there is talk about a "Horned Snake" in one of the stories and Mia finally asked me, "How can the snake play a horn?"  I love it. And all the stories offer these fantastical opportunities to envision images like that.  I like only wondering  what they see when they listen, knowing they hold the vision as their own.  We dance around to the stories which all have whimsical music…pretending we are faes and princesses…but what else is new.

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 The Harder They Come Soundtrack

"…sitting here in limbo, waiting for the tide to turn…"  My girls Jamye, Kristen, Marivi and I spent a bit of some time in Jamaica back in, let’s see…1995 or something like that.  I don’t know what happened to me on that trip but in some ways I think that island offered me some kind of mojo from its core that pointed me in a much needed new direction in life.  I was a bit lost in love and major anger issues at the time; wasting away money in an academic world I could care less about at that age.  Shortly after that trip I graduated and took a backpack with nothing much in it out West never to really return East. It may have been the sea, so blue, blue like my grandmother’s eyes.  Or the perfect and always punctual mid-afternoon storm that was sandwiched by clear tropical sun.  Or maybe it was the fresh fruit and the lovely mama, with floral dresses and braided hair who sold it to me every day.  Maybe it was the large greenery offered in budform that was handed out everywhere you went.  Maybe it was the darkness that loomed across a third-world nation that pulled me into its inner eye and forced me to open my sights to this harsh, harsh world a bit more.

But I think more than anything it  was more about the way people walked in Jamaica.  There seemed to be a few inches of space between people’s feet and the sand when they walked.  Like the 2 never touched.  And then there was the man who lived down the road from where we were staying; Mr. Everything.  Mr. Everything lived in a 10x10 foot square ‘house’ with no running water and no electricity and dirt floors with his family of four.  His light, his energy his peace, his joy, his exhale…all came from a place of grace and gratitude.  I asked him one day if he was happy.  I asked him this because where I come from, if you had "as little" as he had,  people were usually angry, very angry, bitter and forced into lives of crime and violence.   And he looked at me like I was a silly gal, smoking from his hand-carved wooden pipe, "Yes-I,  Respect.  Mista Every-ting ‘appy,   Mistar. Ever-ting has di best in every-ting.  Ital food from dis ‘ere garden, mi yout are healthy n strong, the sea right over there, seen?  What else could I-Man want?  I-Man have it all. Da best of ever-ting. Right here.  Bless up. Seen?"  And he looked at me like I better understand this as one of the most important lessons in my life. That there is what changed my life.  I appreciate my clothes, my cars, my home, my running water and my lesson wasn’t to commit to a saint-like life of poverty…but if it all got taken away, would I still be happy?  Could I survive and feel my place in the world with nothing to my name? Would I feel like I had the best of everything with nothing at all? It taught me to be grateful for my soul, my free mind, my utter presence here on earth regarldess of what I could aquire.  We played this CD over and over again on our travels, as a group of white girls we had no idea about the massive vault of reggae music, beyond the mainstream greats like Marley and Tosh and Cliff, that came from that Isalnd.  But it was perfect for us. Jimmy Cliff, The Melodians, Desomnd Dekker and Pressure Drop (fun youtube video with Jack Johnson and Ben Harper) by Toots and the Maytals…nothing can get better than that song in the morning, no  matter how many times I have heard it or Toots has sung it, it feels me with reds, golds and greens and that is a good thing.  I can relive those moments in my own present life; the perfect balance that reggae always seems to make between acknowledging the suffering yet exclaiming the joy and owning the self/world healing process.

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 I tell Mia about how mama her girlfriends flew together to an Island and lived next to a bunch of Rastas and we ate delicious food and swam in the ocean, and how reggae music really came into my life for the first time there.  "And now daddy makes it?"  "And now daddy makes it, yes."  "I like reggae mama, but I like Rock N Roll tooooooo much!"  Which brings us to…

Dogtown and Z Boys Soundtracks 

Oh yeah.  Pure rock n roll, Southern California skater style circa 1970.  Jimi Hendrix, Alice Cooper, ZZ Top.  My girl need is all about the guitar solos and big bad heavy yells and the drums, she likes the wicked drums.  Once we get to these tracks she winds it up stands atop anything with an elevated surface….bangs her head like a hairband groupie and jumps off. It’s so funny to see such a light soul, a prima-diva, get totally into the gritiness ofrock. This CD is great because it gives such a nice span of 70’s rockers, plus it ends on a really sweet note by Rod Stewart: Maggie May.  Gotta love it.  I think she may have been conceived after watching this movie and perhaps somewhere in there was a spark of her rebel soul, her rocker heart, her Princess Skull.

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So I just woke up from a sleep I had with the girls for what seemed like eternity but was only about 1/2 hour.  I think I always fall asleep before them when I am putting them to bed.  Perhaps it’s my rhythmic breath of sleep, or totally soft muscles enveloping them, but they must pass out really soon after I do. Maybe they want to meet up with me in dreamworld and wait for me to be their lead.  I felt a bit sorry for their pops tonight.  He wanted so badly to cuddle with them to slumber and started off doing so, reading them a huge pile of books, telling them stories he made up, singing them songs…but when it was time to close eyes and sleep, Mia comes out of the bedroom, shuffles down the hall in her ridiculously cute flowered mini biker shorts circa 1985 (we have vintage hand me downs) and a homemade wife beater with an iron-on of a photos of her dad performing a club in Hollywood  and her hair an utter and complete rats nest and says, "Mama.  I don’t want dada to put me to sleep.  I only want you.  When you put me to sleep I see spirals."

 How I could I refuse that one.  So Billy got booted and I snuggled in between my girls.  I asked Mia what she meant by seeing spirals when I put her to sleep and she said when my hand dances she sees spirals, just like the spirals the animals showed her when she went camping with us. 

Ok.  Wow.

Two weeks ago I   threw out my back in a pretty bad way when I was horseback riding.  Allow me preface this by saying that I had some immediate family in town and usually right after any of my clan leaves I get physically ill or a part of me fails.  This has been happening for like 5 years* and it wasn’t until I was pregnant with Mia and I became debilitated with a migraine at 4am one night from dehydration and overall stress infestation did I associate my bodies reactions after spending time with my family.  I have a huge, highly (to the point of frantic) energized, slightly controlling, extremely strong, very anxious, generous, maybe a tiny bit judgmental and overbearing because of love, powerful, and utterly draining (to me) family.  I love them dearly, I worship them all, and in essence they are such pure love and kindness, unique and amazingly creative, but spending prolonged periods of time with more than one of them seems to drive me to break down a bit (this is not the blog to analyze all that…I will just say that being born 10 years after the 6th child and being born the dark black sheep in my family causes me a lot of emotional struggle and it is something I must work on).  So while totally enjoying riding horses throughout the desert of Tonto National Forest with my family, my horse bucked me and my back, which is usually ridiculously strong and pliable, just went kaputz.  Out.  Could barely move without wincing in pain.  I was shocked that my body took this on so heavily.  I tried to stretch back to strength but I was making it even worse.

I usually like to take care of my ailments myself.  I don’t like drugs (prescriptions meds) and I don’t do doctors.  Scared of Chiros.   I like yoga and herbs and meditation and usually that gets me by.  Because I am lucky to be blessed with no serious illness that requires much more, those things have been working for me.  But this was something different.  Something was compressed or compounded or broken.  I had to get some help.  My midwife for Sula suggested a chiropractor and energy worker that is right next to her office.  Sounded good since I was at her office asking her for a referral and next door was about the farthest I could travel.

My two hours with this man transformed me.  He did traditional tests to see where I was outta wack, but once he started to ‘work’ on me, he never even touched me.  He used only energy work to align my legs with my hips and to bring back all the ribs that had fallen out of place.  He also did some amazing work on my kidneys which he felt had dropped.  He also cleared my energy field and made it so "clean and shiny and sparkly" it put to shame my mother’s daily windexed windows.  I could literally feel my ribs drop into place while he did this beautiful finger and hand movement above my body.  I think for the first time in decades my body was totally and completely relaxed.  I had to struggle to stay in it and at times I traveled to this really amazing purple circle, hard to explain but it was like I was floating through a big purple cervix. I have been energetically worked on before, but either I was really ready to accept it this time, or this man rocked. Regardless, I am ever so grateful.

He explained to me that energy work and healing is our birthrite.  That we all have the ability to use it.  We just need to feel it and see it, watch it come and go and circulate.  His path ("to Knowhere" says he) started as a child. He was always "hand dancing" playing with energy, using it, moving it, changing it.  Then he grew and moved on to medical school and somehow became a student of a shaman…who taught him the exact same energy work that he did on himself as a child.  While he was telling me this I envisioned Mia lying in bed every night, doing this hand dance above her face in the dark.  Every night I had to bite my tongue from telling her to put her hands down and go to sleep.  I knew inside that I had to honor her sleeping process, even if that meant taking forever for her to pass out while she wiggled and squirmed and played with her hands.  Hearing this healer tell me all this, I realized what she was doing.  Duh.  I am so glad I never said a word. She was doing energy work on herself.  Of course she was.  Why wouldn’t she be?

I talked to him about seeing energy.  I notice it more and more lately. Mostly outside around trees or my kids.  I am beginning to see colors around people, especially children and pregnant women and I can really see colors around people who are sick or depressed. I am drawn to them for some reason, their colors have this hazy, fuzzy hue, not dark or anything like that, just kind of thick.  He told me a little about what he does and suggested I should just start doing it with my kids and myself and my husband. 

So since then, when I lay down the with girls and they are just about to go out, I do my hand dance over them, I clean up their field, I pull out the old stuff and I see the fresh stuff swirl around them.  Apparently Mia has been seeing it too.  Spirals.  I love it.  I mean it, I am so loving this.  I am not exactly bringing up my kids(yet) in the way I always envisioned, except this is part of it…this has always been a big part of it.  To teach them to see and feel the things we don’t talk about in this world.  To understand our bodies as vibrating, humming, watery spaces of energy.  And because of that, because we are not solid mass, we can use ourselves to make beautiful ripples like in the water, to create new space and fill it with the specks and sparks of life we all need to become the beings we have the right to be.  Free.

So while I just fell asleep with the girls, after doing a nice little hand dance, I had this crazy dream about a Goddess, Yemaya.  Once, long ago, I got a bit into reading up on Voodoo (voudin).  This was before kids and marriage but I was hopelessly in love and all I could think about was being a mama to my lover’s kids someday.  At the time I was living in the mountains, close to Lake Tahoe.  I used to hike those winter white covered trails, protected by massive pines; I’d run and yell and cross over half frozen streams and just be in my glory, being alone in the woods. One day I came across a beautiful river.  I had on my most favorite pair of blue topaz earrings.  I had just read about making an offering in the water to Yemaya; Goddess of ripe women, goddess of childbirth, of the moon and the sea and is often called The Mother of Pearl. Yemaya was with child and her womb supposedly broke and when it did it flooded the earth and she gave birth to the first humans.  I took off those earrings and threw them in the water and said to the most beautiful mother goddess inside myself; I am ready.  Here is a gift. Send me a baby. 

In my dream I was reminded of this offering. She dangled some earring in front of my face but these earring weren’t blue topaz they were bronze and pearl shaped like swans.  And then she told me about a road I was going to travel, a long one. Not as easy as I would like to think but better than I could imagine.  And while I was driving it I was suppose to do hand dancing for the ocean.  Like some sort of ocean healing thing.  She didn’t say hand dancing but she made a notion of the sea and of using energy to fix it.  She was very big and bold and her voice was muffled, like we were both under water, and I was a bit scared but not really.  Her skin was dark chocolate brown and she had a fin the color of the sky instead of legs.  I was like, "ok. Sure.  But my kids.  My kids need to play. Not sure where that came from but I said it.   To that she just smiled and said: So do you.

Now this was less scary then the dream I had right around the same time I gave the earring offering to the water. That was when Hecate came to me as an old crone with scraggily hair and a grey wrinkly face and what seemed like fangs and a big sharp staff and told me to get it together and go be with women in birth and be strong because life is hard (but that is another story…if I haven’t told it already).  This dream tonight was still intense like that, but peaceful, I was not petrified, I was stilled.  I could smell the sea.  I could feel her skin; it was slick and wet and rubbery like a sting ray.  I could see the sand in her matted hair and the fire in her eyes.  But her hands…they were like big white clouds.  The moon was full above.  As it almost is right now.  I can see it from where I type this.

I’ll take all this in.  I breathe it out.  I’ll hand dance some more.  I’ll let it go of it but never forget it. I’ll look for that Airstream I so long for so I can get on the road and travel up the coast and help heal that water.  Playing the whole time with my kids.  I love these kinds of dreams.  Or whatever they are.  It’s just proof to me that life is how I always knew it to be.  Guided, protected and simply magical.

Keep spiraling.

I hate being an ALARMIST but god damn it!  I have kids!  We need the bees!  Bees are good.  Bees keep us fed.  Bees are dying.  Like all over the world their population is shrinking, seriously shrinking.  It’s called Colony Collapse Disorder and it’s when the hive looses all it’s residents.  They disappear and we don’t know what happened to them.  I am so sick of this shit.  I know, I know, stay positive and all but if it’s the cell phones then let’s freaking throw them away.  If it’s the Genetically Modified Foods then DO NOT EVER BUY ANY.  Urg.  I am at loss.  Einstein said, "When the bee’s are gone, the humans have four years.  No bees.  No humans."  SOmething like that.  Do a search on it and you’ll find oodles of info.

Here is an article from the Independent. 

 I guess don’t read it if you want to remain blissfully ignorant.  I almost think that’s what I want at this point.  Or we can visualize bees finding their way back home after pollunating for our human survival.  I dunno.  But something’s gotta give. 

My rant for the day.

Sorry.