Home again from a restful weekend at Mendocino... .

The contrasts in my world have always been somewhat extreme, but never more so that at this moment. Driving in a warm springlike rain into the Anderson valley with the two-lane road pretty much all to myself was a departure from the crowded freeways that I weave through day after day in the auto-polluted cities. Seeing bright pink blossoms of trees meant to bear and not simply ornamental as they are here just outside my door in Richmond. Fields of what I've always thought of as Scotch Broom but am told is a similar but highly invasive plant that is threatening to crowd out native flora all along the coastal plains and valleys, but whose sharp yellows today make up for the varying greys of the rain-laden skies. The drive up Highway 128 -- through the redwood forest of the Navarro river was fragrant and greening for spring... beautiful! But the promised heavier rains would come soon, surely ... .

Last week I stood shoulder to shoulder at the retirement party for Judy Hart, the superintendent of the new national Park. It was a gathering of Richmond's inner circle -- the mayor and city council, reps from state and federal office holders, good friends and still-living "Rosies" (I believe there were at least three of us present. Still have problems relating to being named among that group.) The reception and dinner were held at Salute (should be an accent over the "e" but can't find it now), one of my favorite restaurants -- and one of the few in the area appropriate for more formal events. A lovely place on the marina sitting comfortably amid sailboats of Richmond's more affluent and with a fine cuisine and a story that needs telling:

Ten years ago this month, "Memby," a stunningly beautiful young woman from Ethiopia came to this country as an immigrant and single mother. She spoke no English. She found a job in this lovely resturant doing whatever needed doing and learning the business as she tended tables and greeted guests. She placed her young son in a Catholic school then worked 3 jobs simultaneously to support them both. About 18 months ago -- after working incredibly hard and saving every penny -- she bought the place, lock, stock, and cuisine. Without changing the menu or the fine service that had served the previous owners so well for so long, she's managed to do the impossible. Memby's is a story worth telling. She's has not yet been celebrated as is warranted by her performance.

Were I a member of the quaint village of historic Mendocino, I would know nothing about Memby, I suppose. There are so many like stories in Richmond, stories that I've been privileged to discover over the years. These heroes and heroines people my life and enrich my days. They provide the balances so needed when the headlines scream out the sensational day-to-day deaths and near-deaths. The sensational feeds upon itself and it all begins to make up the tension that I feel drop away as I hit that place in the road -- just as I leave the last trees of the redwoods -- where Highway 18 merges with Coast Highway #1 -- where the Navarro meets the ocean. I can feel the fear drop away and my jaw loosen as I free the bite that I had no idea I was holding ... .

This time I turned off Porgy and Bess by the Houston Opera Company. Those familiar sounds had filled the car all the way from Cloverdale -- pressed the buttons that opened the window on the driver's side -- and filled the car with the scent of decaying leaves and salt sea spray. Made note of the fact that "Eden" in Mendocino was but 4 and a half cd's from Richmond, and that Porgy and Bess was not appropriate here. Vivaldi would have been a better and Ellington or Billy Strayhorne even better than that. On the way home I'd plan my listening experience more carefully. Recalled in the listening to Gershwin's masterpiece that the last time I'd seen this opera I'd found it racist for the first time. Written by someone outside the black experience -- and despite the beautiful score -- it was a reminder of a time when the stereotypical was the order of the day, and losing myself in the arias (Summertime and Bess, you is my woman now" no longer worked well enough to erase the pain we were then covering less than effectively. I hated Crown but saw Porgy as pitiful and less than heroic ... as I wanted my black icons to be. No Martin Kings here, only the Cab Calloways.

Wonder if anyone is thinking seriously of writing the score for the story of Tupac Shakur or Diallo or Nelson Mandela? Wonder what the differences might be? Maybe somewhere behind prison walls there is an opera being carved out against a wall with some carefully-hidden and fiercely-guarded prison-made spoon handle ...

With such a high ratio of blacks incarcerated, it is probable that a fair number are from the population of the visual and performing artists. Wouldn't I love to know what those figures are ... and how to reach them.

Oh, the stories!

But that's not what I wanted to talk about today, but time has past far too quickly and there is catching up to do ... more later.

Photo: One of the cedars that flanks the driveway and forms the gateway of "The Timbers," the only home that I've ever known that rates a name of its own. It is most fitting. it's situated on a bluff 80 feet from the edge of the ocean and is one of the most beautiful places I've ever known.

Message to Him:

What a glorious celebration of a life! The large church was filled to overflowing with music lovers, old friends, relatives, students, and a mass choir of about 80 voices of all races and ages -- singers that he and Terry (his son) had worked with over the years. They raised the roof with soulful gospel music, spirituals, and the best jazz I've heard in years. The elite of the Bay Area's musicians (Peter Barshay on bass, John Santos on congas, Babatunde on drums and John Stewart on keyboards) were there in praise of Ed's life. Wish you could have been there to hear the music and the eulogies.

Ed Kelly's music has been heard the world over, from his years of study at the prestigious Berkley School of Music, to concerts in Japan, Switzerland, Paris, both coasts, and for the past 20 years or more from the classroom of Laney College in Oakland. His awards have been many, from Downbeat Magazine to the Bammies here in the Bay Area. He was named Humanitarian of the Year by the Black Gospel Music Academy a few years ago, so his fans and admirers were countless and today filled the church of his lifetime with a loving and melodic sendoff into eternity.

All of the prominent Bay Area black preachers were present and accounted for, led by Rev. J. Alfred Smith, Sr., Ed's pastor at Allen Temple Missionary Baptist Church -- his eulogy was very moving and heartfelt -- a proper balance between the sacred and the profane -- gospel to jazz, though today jazz was accorded full status as Black America's classical music. Today jazz was sacred. I'm so glad to have been in that congregation. Even sang out a few "Praise the Lords" and "Amens" along with the rest of the brethren. (Atheism doesn't hold up terribly well in the black church.)

Not sure I'll arrive until late afternoon tomorrow, surely in time for the art show openings. Saturday is a big day at the store and I'm not at all sure that David can get away to pick Dorian up from practice. It will add some miles to my driving -- having to go to Oakland and back, but I'll be ready to roll shortly after noontime. Should arrive between 3:00 and 4:00 if the traffic is relaxed and easy. The rest of this day will be spent doing last minute tasks in order to leave Dorrie set up for the weekend without me. Will probably get little sleep tonight since I do tend to get burned up by anticipation -- been true ever since I was about six. Christmas was a disaster until I gave up on Santa Claus much later than most kids, actually; ever the dreamer optimist.

Guess I've gotten past my eulogizing now and can get back to living concerns again, like civic meetings, matching socks, and feeding cats. Will get out of my mourning suit and into my blue jeans and tee shirt and catch up with things I've neglected for the past few days.

Hope you're well and that your tests show nothing worrisome. While I'm in my temporary state of religious bliss, will send up a few prayers of support, but I don't think there's much chance that I'll be heard. Sinner status will be reinstated just as soon as I get out of my mourning clothes!

Fondly,

Betty

In an eerie case of "death comes in threes,"

yesterday brought the third announcement. It's the more bizarre because about ten days ago I woke from a disturbing dream in which the only characters were my mother, father, and sister -- all three died years ago. I wondered at the time if this was a foreboding of events to come, or, if it indicated something more personal -- a premonition of my own death, maybe? I rarely recall my dreams so this made it the more troubling... .

Yesterday, barely minutes after I wrote the last entry there was a call from Joan, a lifelong friend whom I see rarely now. I was one of her grownup friends when she was a teenager and I served as godmother to her first born son, Michael. I have two godsons, Lyn and Michael. It was Lyn's father who was memorialized on Saturday.

While a student at U.C. Berkeley during the Vietnam War, Michael left the country for Cuba in a period of deep disillusionment and nationalist anger. He was a student activist during the turbulent Sixties and one of the casualties of the civil rights movement. He was handsome and bright and talented, and eventually became one of Cuba's young intellectuals with a radio program on Havana radio to much acclaim. He could never return to the US, though his parents and sister visited him on occasion, but I've never seen him again.

Joan was calling to tell me that Michael had died two weeks ago. It had been a brief illness. Michael had died of cancer of the esophagus -- the illness that had claimed Joan's father's life when Michael was still a baby. The anniversary of that death and Michael's was but a single day apart. Joan had flown to Cuba for services and wanted to let me know that their friends here were planning a memorial in early March. I was stunned! She sounded calm and sensible as I've always known her to be. No hysteria. But it's been a while since his death and it was only I who was unknowing at this point. Michael was the age of my middle son, Bob, and memories of them as children rushed back in these moments as I tried to catch my breath. It felt like a full blow to my body, and it hurt as if I'd been hit squarely with an invisible fist!

When I cradled the phone I sat for a long time sitting still and feeling relieved that it may now be over; the cycle of death. This was the third. No more, please. Let this be the end.


This weekend I will drive to the north coast to be with him. I'm telling myself that this is as much for Dorian as for me -- building up muscles for independence again. We've both regressed since she returned home, and I'm becoming more and more "Mama" with each day; infantilizing her into the role of "child". When she was still in her Oakland apartment, we'd worked out a nice relationship as super-friends, but that's been fading fast. She is delighted to have our condo to herself for the weekend, and I'm trying to not allow myself to see this as a self-serving strategy designed to free me to exercise my rights as woman. I'm not too sure that I have the answers yet, but we both appear to be enjoying a little distance in our relationship, so I won't question too closely.

In two weeks he and I will drive up to Ashland, Oregon, for 6 days -- and this weekend will serve as the dress rehearsal. Haven't told her about that yet. Not sure why, but maybe it has to do with not wanting her to have so much warning that she can plan mischief of some sort to get into while I'm gone. (Obviously, I'm not fully confident, right?)

The special bus service will pick her up each day for NIAD where she will spend her five hours. David will check with her each evening. She's a great mother to her two pet cats and considers them her children. They will need tending, and she's never been neglectful. (Not to worry, Mom!) I'll notify her caseworker and teachers that she'll be alone -- and that should do it.

Besides, the death cycle has now ended, hasn't it?

Here's to life!

Passages ...

Attended a memorial service on Saturday -- the day after the Rennie Harris dance performance -- and the contrasts were stunning.

The setting was the nursing home where my friend, Henry "Buddy" Sims, spent his final three years of life. As the godmother of his only son, Lyn, this was a service I dared not miss. Properly dressed in my only black pants suit I managed to arrive promptly for the two o'clock service -- to find myself in a room with my contemporaries -- mostly strangers with whom he'd shared his last years. There were also his relatives, most of whom I'd not met before and at least two widowed friends.

The thing I remember most about Buddy was his enthusiastic two-finger jazz piano duets with anyone who could handle the bass end of the keyboard -- and his inventive dance steps. No one could boogie like Buddy.

I realized in looking around that here was my age appropriate group, yet I felt out more out of context here than I'd felt last night at the Yerba Buena Center; strange. I have no sense that I'm trying to escape the aging process. In many ways I'm probably more aware of the inexorable passage of time than ever before. What's different? Could it have been the nursing home setting? There were so many in the room with walkers and attached to oxygen tanks and wheelchairs ... felt a shudder. I realized how fortunate I've been for such a long time; blessed by excellent health and continuing energy with which to move through life without the hindrance of some chronic illness to contend with.

It's quite possible that the fact that I've not stopped working has added to my stamina -- but there's surely something more to pay attention to. Wish I knew what it was ... .

It's genetic, I suppose. Long-lived parents and grandparents surely account for much of it. One thing is perfectly clear, at least. Despite arguments to the contrary miscegination surely did not foul the gene pool!

Given any luck at all, a favorable response to global warming, a world eventually at peace, continuing safe journeys on the roads, I may make it to the century mark as did my mother, Lottie, and greatgrandmother, Leontine Breaux Allen. But that's a crap shoot these days, and the odds are not great, I think.

I think that I'm less afraid of death than of dying. Its not that I'm all that courageous -- it's simply that I've never been able to imagine the state of non-existence ... .

On Friday of this week there will be another memorial. This time is will be another dear friend, masterful jazz pianist, Ed Kelly who died a week ago after a long battle against a devastating stroke. This will be different, I think. The service will be held in a large African American -- Allen Temple Missionary Baptist Church in East Oakland. Every musician for miles around will be in the congregation. There will be great music and I'm certain that his life will be celebrated magnificently. His son, Terence, is the director of the internationally famed Oakland Interfaith Gospel Choir. Ed often accompanied the group so surely they will " ...make a joyful noise onto the Lord."

I will surely feel less age-isolated in that congregation since folks of every age and gender will share in that celebration and the music will erase all of the insignificant differences -- all except the love we shared for Ed and one another during his lifetime.

In a way I'm looking forward to this experience. It will be inter-racial, inter-cultural, but firmly rooted in Black culture. It will be rich and memorable, and I will be nourished for having been a part of it.

Wish Buddy could have attended. It would have been his cup 'o tea ... .

Sensational performance!

Rennie Harris is a brilliant performer...

and his dance company is astounding in what it brings together. The show is called "Exploring Outsider Art and Street Culture in Facing Mekka." The company is Rennie Harrie Puremovement. Astounding! The subtitle is "Imagine a whole new way to see. Life Amplified!" A more apt description could not be found, I think.

There were drummers, singers, film against towering screens, dancers who used the entire spectrum of movement from street dance to house dance to acrobatics to break-dancing to ballet and African-influenced movement. There was even one young musician who used only voice in an unbelievable range of sounds -- a page taken from the Bobby McFerrin songbook but expanded beyond belief. Gutterals, percussive bursts, screams and shrieks, with body movements accenting sound in a way that announced to the world that Hip Hop is indeed a worthy art form, one that now circles the globe and permeates much of the emerging art forms. Anyone who has allowed themselves to limit the definition to rapping (a single expression of a vast new world of expression) is missing something profound and as important as Dada-ism, Impressionism, Surrealism, etc. There are some new young masters making their mark in film, music, dance, and poetry (known as "spoken word")under the banner of Hip Hop. San Francisco, New York, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Boston, and large cities in between have embraced this exciting art form, and others will follow in time.

Rennie Harris, DJ Spooky, presentations by entrepreneur Russell Simmons all appear to be the leading lights right now. Their work is raw, audacious, and bold, often pushing the edges of propriety -- but then that's the role of the artist in society anyway, and always has been. And they're working from the pallette we've left to them as legacy; a legacy of unbridled violence from a constant stream of televised hatred fed to them in lieu of time and attention in a world often too busy for nurturing parenting.

In watching the show on Saturday night I realized the power of the dance as a way of dealing with profanity in ways that doesn't crash up against our hot buttons in quite the same way that speech does. Yet I saw in the multi-media backdrop fire and water and violence and guns and heinous cruelty and charging dogs all reinforced by a foreground where dancers contorted their bodies grotesquely to a cacophony of sound that was abstract and dissonant, raucous and magnificent! Had all of that been delivered in words I undoubtedly would have shut them out in the attempt to protect my senses. Dance exposed and delivered every emotion and at a feeling level that could penetrate my resistance without destroying me. It was amazing ... !

It also occurred to me that -- in this show that was devoid of sexual innuendo (almost always erroneously associated with Hip Hop) -- the new pornography is violence. But that's been true for a very long time now, hasn't it? Films and television exploit it quite freely, and we do little more than complain mildly and soothe ourselves with the belief that this is a freedom of the tawdry that we must defend as a privilege granted by the 1st Amendment, of course; and I agree. Maybe the answer is what young people are doing with it; transforming it into poetry and music and paintings and dance and reflecting it back to us for reconsideration in a plea for peace and love. If you listen closely you can hear that in the work of Eminem and others.

They're crossing racial and cultural lines to share their concerns and it's working for them. Below the age of 30 the young in urban areas show every sign of having eliminated racial bigotry from their world. The celebration of Black culture is universal in their world, and without apology. It's no longer a case of expropriation of a culture, but a crossing over of lines of separation with a full understanding of their own shared history and the "sins of the fathers" that may need atonement.

If we can keep the world from blowing up at the hands of those who make claim to fundamentalist religious beliefs, this supposedly profane generation of true believers may yet save us all.

Meanwhile -- if you live close enough and can get tickets to any of the upcoming Yerba Buena Center for the Arts dance performances this spring, do so. The Robert Moses Dance Company and DJ Spooky are both coming soon to the YBC. The Black Choreographers Festival at Project Artaud Theater, also in San Francisco comes February 11-13 with a Sunday family matinee performance. It should be really exciting.

Have been thinking over the weekend about contacting the Richmond Art Center director about the possibility of creating a program of performing arts tours that people here might subscribe to. Wonderful way to begin to build an audience for bringing shows here at some point in the future.

But for now there's work to do, like sorting laundry ... .

We've recovered nicely, thank you.

Confidence back in order and paint brushes at the ready.

For those who emailed to ask for photos of Dorian's Tsunami, I'm still working on it. Managed to send one set to a friend, but it was a bumbling attempt without the proper settings so they were not the thumbnails I'd anticipated. Really feared that her computer would crash from the overload! She did reply, however, to say that they'd arrived safely. Will try to export into CbreauxAnnex as soon as I figure the process, so patience is the keyword here.

Today I'll attend a memorial service for a very old friend from my teen years. These rites are frequent these days -- a problem associated with octogenarianism. Reminders of one's mortality and the need to live with intentionality now. But then I'm not sure that I haven't always done that anyway. Nonetheless, there's that reminder to treasure the days while mourning those who precede you into nothingness... .

That's this afternoon. Tonight I'll attend a Hip Hop Concert at the San Francisco Yerba Buena Center. An artist named Rennie Gaines, I believe, and someone we'd like to bring to Richmond at some point for a young people's concert. Though I've still not been able to convince the powers that be to turn me loose on the Centennial, as much as I'd like to. Meeting with some co-conspirators to explore ways to get this city to take advantage of this upcoming 100th year anniversary as a way of marketing itself. Wonderful opportunity that may be squandered while we continue to stumble around trying to recover financially from a period of bad decisions that drained the city coffers and caused widespread dissonance within the community. We're on the mend now, though, and I firmly believe it's time to begin the celebration, later working our way up to dancin' in the streets!

In the background is the dull drone of the world at war and my apprehension at Jessica's departure sometime this week for Boot Camp. Frightening thought....

Then there's that reminder of Iran/Contra with still another name from the past -- Elliott Abrams -- moving into position in the second term cabinet of this erratic, arrogant, and (I believe) war criminal president. Scary words to type in, but as I did so I felt a surge of anger and outrage. What a terrible thing to believe about a leader and an administration that holds the power of life over the entire world!

It is at such times as these that I envy Dorian's innocence; her inability to feel the uncertainty and terror that I wake to many nights. Then I feel the weight of responsibility to "get it right" for us both as the days unfold and I send off my letters, click petitions online, all in an admittedly weak attempt at addressing events so far beyond my -- or anyone else's -- control.

But tonight it's the Yerba Buena Art Center and an experience that may provide a look at the world that we're growing into -- the world of the young, those who will hold the fate of the nation (the world?) in their hands before long. Given the state of public education and the justice system, one can only hope that there are enough balances created by the new technologies to prepare them for leadership adequately and quickly enough to save us all. I've met some amazing young people recently, and am hopeful. The new generation may have to wrest power from those reluctant to step away from center stage. Sounds a little like revolution, doesn't it? I hope that's not what we're moving toward ... but I'm no longer sure how the drastic changes demanded to alter our disastrous course can be accomplished without drastic measures.

I think I need to stop writing now. Not sure of where I'm going, and it's troubling to entertain such thoughts, even casually.

Life does have a way of balancing the score and keeping us humble.

Dorian's great artistic triumph has now to be measured against one of those incidents that grays the hair and encourages nightmares.

As has been a new "tradition" dating back to a few weeks ago, I drove out to the suburbs to spend the day with the man in my life (new Wednesday commitment). On the drive home my cell phone rang and at the other end of the call was a distraught Dorian. She could hardly speak. It seems that as she was washing her brushes at the sink -- just before the end of her day at NIAD, there was an unprovoked attack by a young man who suffers from autism. He struck her on the right side of her face near the eye and again on her back before staff could intervene. In the process her glasses were damaged but not nearly as much as her pride and self-confidence.

He is someone who attends the program only two days a week and apparently has an attendant who accompanies him on those days. NIAD is a relatively new experience for him and he's still learning to navigate a system that has rules that he's ill equipped to either understand or comply with.

Dorrie, on the other hand, is confident and reasonably talented but lacks the mental capacity to understand autism, or, the reasons why anyone would be so out of control. The damage to her psyche was far more serious than the blows she received, though today there is still soreness and some swelling. We managed to get through the evening relatively well (once I reached home from my tryst) except for my own feelings of guilt at not being available to her at such a time.

Almost instantly as I logged off from her hysterical call, the phone rang again. This time it was from one of the staff at NIAD feeling just awful and fearful of my reaction (I'm sure), and needed almost as much reassurance as did Dorrie. I listened as well as I could while weaving through rush hour traffic, and told her that the miracle was that Dorian has reached maturity without ever having had such an experience before. Considering the population that wonderful program is working with (so beautifully), it is small wonder that they manage to balance all of the disabilities that fill the studios without experiencing anything more serious than this. As soon as I was assured that Dorian had not suffered any real physical harm, it sounded as if they'd handled it well and that I could pick up the rest of the pieces when I eventually reached home.

She was waiting at the door with an icebag on her face and tears streaming! However, despite all -- it took no more than an hour or so to make things right, and we did.

The offender has been suspended (unfortunately since he probably needs the program more than we do) and won't return for a week. He was made to apologize for being out of control, but that may beyond his power to feel -- even though the process needed to be gone through for his sake and for the sake of on-watchers. The staff tried to make it clear to Dorrie that his actions were not caused by anything she'd done or said, but I'm not sure that she could understand that to be any more true than he was to actually feel his apology. Makes me wonder about the emptiness of some of the practices that we've put in place to handle such events in our attempts at socializing the afflicted. He'll continue to feel threatened by having been placed in a program he doesn't yet value, and she will be fearful of his rage because it is irrational -- too much for even the professionals to deal with confidently. Tis a dilemma.

But, while I was still half asleep this morning under my down quilt -- I could hear her up feeding her two cats, packing her lunch, brushing her teeth, and by the appointed hour -- setting out to wait for her bus. I drove over to NIAD at noon time to pick her up to get the eyeglasses repaired (to get rid of this evidence of the traumatic event)and found her well into her new sculpture (something that defies description at this point, except that I hear the word dragon) that has her excited again. We've weathered another storm, and it won't be the last.

However, I'm planning to take off for five days in early March for Ashland, Oregon, to see several plays. It's important to me. This was going to be another attempt at exercising Dorian's reconstituted independence. I was reminded that there is always the unforeseen -- impossible to plan for or guard against. I have no doubt that she can handle being alone again, but I have a new worry to deal with. I'd give almost anything to feel just a bit less responsible. As is almost always the case, I'll have to try hard to turn down the panic buttons and give her the chance to deal with life on her own. Keep reminding myself that David is completely reliable and caring and that the risk is small.

We'll both survive.

Besides, she's been asked by a NIAD staffmember if she'd like to try to design a logo for Special Olympics -- for a postcard to be used by the local groups (I presume). This may have simply been something offered to distract her from the trauma of yesterday, but it doesn't matter. The request validates her status as "artist" and she may opt for that over "victim." Some get trapped at that place and never recover. She has a lot of good credits banked from the last art show and can draw on them now to maintain herself. My biggest job may be to stand back and let that happen and to convince myself that "the world" will continue to do the right thing by her. One day that will be her only buffer and learning how to navigate the social system now is vitally important.

I'm trying to make myself see this an another opportunity for growth and to keep my "mothering" from getting overblown and undoing all the good work we've done over the years.

Life goes on.

Can one create a tsunami as sculpture?

Of course not. Any fool knows that. But Dorian didn't, fortunately. Her mental deficits do not allow her the power of reason or judgement. It's in the arts that such deficits may become assets instead of handicaps. There are lots of "cannot do" areas in her life, but not within the walls of NIAD, where with clay, paint, glue, fabric, etc., all things are possible. The rules that govern so much of the rest of the world stop at the front door, and dream life becomes easily accessible, and a group of great teachers stand ready to help artists to see the possibilities in any chosen medium. It's a truly magical place.

We weren't prepared for the power of the exhibit on Thursday evening. Dorrie's wood sculpture was fantastic! Have no way to describe it except to say that it probably measured about 40 inches in length and stood perhaps 18-20 inches high and was composed of brightly-painted small bits of wood shaped into indescribable abstract suggestions of chairs and tables and other artifacts of life. There were no people (presumably post-wave). One end consisted of a single sheet of down-sloping wood painted in blues and greens and stopped by a wall she'd created to hold back the "water". She explained that the higher elevations were to give people a place to be where the waves wouldn't get them. It was all there. It was chaotic in feeling in almost florescent oranges, reds, yellows, and blues with shapes going in every direction as if wave-tossed. It was a tremendous work, and probably all inspired from the endless repetitious news coverage of the historic tragedy. It was a stunning piece of work that surprised everyone who stopped to visit her exhibit.

I felt so grateful that an imaginative instructor had chosen to not dissuade her from tackling something so abstract and impossible to create as her first attempt at sculpture. I can just imagine Dorrie saying, "I'm going to make a tsunami," and a less wise teacher saying, "no, dear. We should first try making something more familiar -- maybe a snake or an ashtray, or something ...". Instead this young woman said, "sure, go for it!" And she did. There's a message here about the danger of lowered expectations, a problem that's all too common these days.

There's that quality that Dorian enjoys that I often envy. Like the bumble bee who is not aero-dynamic and doesn't know that it can't fly -- does it anyway. Dorian has no way to know that one simply cannot capture the power of a tsunami in bits of wood and glue, so has the freedom to "soar" artistically.

There was more magic in the faces of the guests at the reception who stared with wonder as they viewed her creation. Maybe she freed us all just a bit, at least enough to get us through the weekend, and another round of horrors from the war zones.

Her Tsunami will be featured in NIAD's summer show in June, and she's now officially assuming the title of "Artist."

Makes me wonder how one measures talent and ability as expressed by people like Dorian Reid and her 22 year-old friend, Ingrid, who suffers from cerebral palsy and paints wonderful landscapes from her wheel chair -- holding her paint brush between her teeth ... .

And, no, the work at the S.F. MOMA was not better, only different.

There are more dimensions to the arts than many of us can perceive, I think.

Photo: Dorian Leon Reid, Artist studying at NIAD (National Institute for Artists with Disabilities) in Richmond, California.

I'm more and more wary of the new rhetoric --

hearing words differently, with suspicion and fear. This morning I read my email copy of AlterNet and was struck by the new jargon that places emphasis on "The Ownership Society." For all intents and purposes it brought forth the image of slavery. Not sure the capital wordsmiths thought of that, or, if the words strike fear in anyone else as they do in me ... .

Maybe the slippage in Ohio that disenfranchised so many darkskinned voters has reawakened those feelings. The fact that the voters rights legislation is up for renewal and that I'm actually fearful that what is now accomplished by diversion and chicanery will be formally achieved by law. It's possible to simply allow the law to lapse, I believe, or to get caught up in committee never to see the light of day. Feels like treading water in 30 foot depth of the ocean of life, without an oxygen tank ... and this time political expediency has allowed black conservatives to be co-opted into a corrupt system headed by those who can only maintain power to controlling the large blocs of black voters -- all for a price or political gain.

It seems unlikely that liberals will be able to sustain enough clout to undo the damage being done to the body politic over the next two years -- before another election can alter the balance of power between parties. It will take a lot of crossing over the aisle by conservatives of conscience to get us there. Olympia Dukakis and the other moderate Republicans will have to join forces with like-minded Democrats if we're to work our way back to some reasonable semblance of constitutional order. The only thing sustaining me is the feeling that this is already happening in the back halls of Congress, and that the pendulum is already beginning its swing toward equity in governance and a balance of power. Otherwise ... .

New Yorker columnist, Seymour Hersch, has been giving stinging interviews over the tube -- and the fact that his charges in re an invasion of Iran are not being denied by the administration. If there is any hope to be gained from these disturbing developments it is that he is being fed critical information by fearful and powerful staffers in high places -- or he wouldn't be able to release such information with impunity.

Fear for their lives has practically eliminated any direct news reports from Iraq so we're now totally dependent upon independent freelancers, Al Jazeera and other Mideast media, and Seymour Hersch. Our kids are out there on their own -- killing and being killed with few on site to observe the conditions under which these lives are being lost. My granddaughter will soon be among them. Jessica has enlisted -- fresh out of highschool with no prospects for employment and no way to move out to live on her own without marrying someone she's not yet met.

...a day of confusion and fear.

...tonight I'll view the innocent artwork of my daughter and her disabled classmates.

...have I told you that her latest piece is a wood sculpture (her first) that is called "Tsunami"? It must have risen from the images she's been exposed to on television. Since she's totally illiterate, it will be interesting to see what she's envisioned and how she translates that vision into an art piece. Only learned about it last night upon overhearing a phone conversation she had with a friend. I was only aware of her 3 paintings hung in the gallery for this show. They are sketches of her cats. She's spoken of her new teacher who's introduced her to sculpture as an art form, but there was no hint that the work was completed and had been named.

Naming the pieces is an important part of the work. I've sometimes sat quietly nearby -- having arrived early to pick her up. The group of artists sit in a circle. The instructor holds up a work in progress while the group reacts to it verbally. The artist is first asked to describe it, and in some cases it's quite clear that there was an intentional image in mind. As often as not, however, an artist will have simply expressed something in color and line without a theme in mind. The group will discuss what it reminds them of, and the artist reacts to what others see. Fascinating process.

Dorian is quite definite about what she's creating. The titles are in most cases intentional, and her sense of whether she's succeeded to produce what her inner eye sees is judged by whether or not others see the image she's trying to project. She has a firm expectation of her ability and is good naturedly critical of her work. Rarely is it totally ill-defined or pointless, waiting for identity from outside herself. I can see her delight when her image is confirmed by the others. I'm anxious to see how on earth she's been able to take on such a devastating event as the tsunami. Watch this space for a report.

Sunday it was the S.F. Museum of Modern Art and the recognized icons of the art world -- tonight it will be the National Institute for Artists with Disabilities (NIAD). It might interest you to know that the differences are minor. There are pieces in both places that one can be certain the artists were lucky to have had a way to express constructively! There are also pieces that express unbridled creativity -- sans rules or roadmaps and daringly capable of exploring the outer edges of who they are. I've been able to hold in my hand a ceramic object created by a young woman who has been blind from birth. To hold it is spellbinding and gives new meaning to the word "wonder". To listen while others in the group react to her projects, giving them titles and meaning within the context of their own limited understanding, and watching her face as she listens to their descriptions...is humbling.

Tonight I'll share this with experience my friend.

Dorian will be our guide.

One would never have guessed that there would be at least one more love story to be lived ... .

About a decade ago I settled for living the rest of time out in interesting vignettes, if luck held out, but never did I dream that there could be more. "Love among the ruins" is more than a great title for a drama about liaisons among the elders. There is a totally different kind of love relationship to be experienced; one not dependent upon those things that justified the investment in the past -- each in the other -- procreation, financial security, social status, etc., but one that stands alone and free of the need for caution and without time considerations. Every day is an eternity. Every day starts with promise and a preciousness now clearer than at any other time in my life. Each day sharpens both the joy and the pain of existence, if only because we're living in such a delicate balance between the two. How we spend this luxury of time has become of critical importance even while we're enjoying the lightness of being created by the knowledge that the world we'll be leaving is no longer able to hold us accountable. Our ability to effect change is now minimal so love can now move back into the foreground and purpose can recede back into negative space.

Time has been so much kinder to me than to him. I'm still active and physically blessed with extraordinarily good health. Because of his physical limitations, I'm required to slow my pace through life and am therefore seeing the world far more sharply than before. It's as though someone has changed the focus on the lens. Strange. I'm aware of every step that I take now. Holding onto his arm as we amble along is now out of pure necessity. When I forget to do so, I find myself ten steps ahead and constantly running back in embarrassment at my insensitivity. But it works for me. Even weeds thrusting violently upward through cracks in the sidewalk now get my attention. I'd forgotten the power in such natural phenomena -- and appreciate again the metaphor such images provide when needed.

Yesterday we returned to the S.F. MOMA and viewed the permanent exhibit of retro photographers, Edward Steichen, Ansel Adams, Richard Avedon, and re-visited the Modernists furniture -- Charles Eames et al with those wonderful chairs.

We're making plans to take a trip to the Ashland Shakespeare Festival in April; something I've never done. There we will see Richard III as well as August Wilson's Ma Wilson's Black Bottom, among several plays, both contemporary and medieval.

On Thursday evening of this week he will attend the Artist's Reception at NIAD (National Institute for Artists with Disabilities) where Dorian has 3 paintings on exhibit. She needs to meet him. I've carefully chosen to bring them together for the first time in an environment where she is being celebrated and where she is known as her own person and not as an appendage to me or to anyone else. And in a way that her mental disabilities are not the most important fact about her. That feels important to me. She will surely see more of him in the future but the ground will have been laid in a way that benefits how that plays out, I think.

I've met all of his family now -- he arranged to bring us together at dinner recently. I'd not done that yet. Only told my sons about him over the past ten days or so. Haven't heard from one son, but David's response was "Be happy, Mom. You've earned it. Dorian has been well prepared for living without you over these many years, and she can surely manage to take care of herself in the apartment alone while you're away. And, I'm only ten minutes away and will see that she's safe and well." Our roles are being reversed. I was a permissive and trusting mother and he's now being a permissive and trusting son. Nice.

Maybe now I can give myself over to living more fully another chapter of this extraordinary life of mine. There are some new parts of myself to explore -- bits of me not revealed in earlier relationships. I trip over newness as these moments flash by, and I sense new possibilities still unfolding.

I'm certain that neither of us thinks beyond the next few months. Anything more would be foolish. But for the first time in my life, NOW is more than enough and TOMORROW is simply irrelevant.

He's a very dear man from whom I may be learning to see one more face of love ... .

Sorting through feelings is taking up my entire being right now.

Little time to record anything, or to react except with disbelief ... .

The fears are so close to the surface -- panic, really -- that I've been reluctant to struggle with the words for fear that panic would spill over and trigger hysteria ... .

It's like the feelings I had years ago each time I saw the Doomsday Clock move ever closer to midnight and the end of time for the planet. How have we come to this?

Couldn't bring myself to watch the ceremonies on Wednesday, but had a hard time avoiding it. Coverage was everywhere, including that of the anti-Bush demonstrations. Maybe the fear is becoming so universal that counter-forces will finally emerge to move us back from the edge. There are bits of it forming here and there, but much gets erased with each on-air interview with Bush supporters. How on earth can they not see? The duplicity is so marked. The gross bigotry profoundly expressed in every speech coming from the current administration is stunning; the more so because it is clear that the speechwriters aren't aware of what they're expressing much of the time. It got to me during one of the many quick snatches of Bush's speech wafted by last night when he mentioned "... treatment of minorities." He quite obviously has no idea that -- on the world scale -- whites are far outnumbered, and that this nation has erroneously pluralized the word "minority" in order to avoid accepting that fact. There is no such thing as "85% minority." It's an oxymoron! 85% minority is the majority. The ability to create and control how language is used often determines who controls "truth."

I'm firmly convinced that only impeachment can turn this juggernaut around. There is little chance that we can survive through another four years of wars and more wars building more and more hatred throughout the known world. It cannot wait. Today I will look up former Attorney General Ramsey Clarke's web site and sign the petition demanding impreachment. He said yesterday that there are now 500,000 signatures submitted, but that at least 5 million will be needed to gain the attention of Congress. Today there will be 500,001.

MoveOn.Org sent out an appeal for support to allow us to begin to build upon the national grassroots movement that brought victory so close last November. Eli Pariser and Joan et al are Bay Area people whom I've met. I trust their leadership. Will send off my check today right after my vote for impeachment. I know it all seems meager in contrast to the corporate power we're facing, but, if unified -- this nation's ordinary folks can still come together to save ourselves from total self-destruction. I firmly believe that. But that can happen only if enough of us believe deeply enough to act quickly and often for the change we want to see.

If you're reading this, I'll trust that we're of like mind and that we can together add numbers to Ramsey Clarke's petition.

Hopefully,

Betty

First Barbara Lee and now Barbara Boxer, ...

both California women friends to be proud of. We have at least one in the house and one in the senate raising hell and speaking for what I sense is a growing national constituency. Watching Senator Barbara Boxer take on the secretary of state designee this morning gave me hope and swept away much of yesterday's depression.

Having the governor and the supreme court both turn down the final appeal for the man whose life on Death Row ended last night at San Quentin had taken its toll. When my clock radio clicked on this morning to the hearings -- and the now familiar voices started to drone on -- I felt a momentary wave of nausea, then Barbara started her interrogation (and interrogation it was!). Every question that needed asking was asked. The anger and frustration she was feeling was evident in her voice, and she was unapologetic for it. She was expressing what so many of us are feeling. Just got off a letter of support to this tiny warrior, and hope that others are doing the same. The voting has yet to be conducted, and, though the outcome is predictable -- Barbara Boxer will stand her (and our) ground. We (our network) just received a message from her office asking for backup support by email before this afternoon's voting takes place.

How interesting that it is the women in governance who are stepping up to take the heat and lead the way. But it may be more important to note that it is this area of the nation (the San Francisco Bay Area) that continues to lead the way. The truth is that their Progressive constituencies grant them permission to do so. We've have been demanding this kind of leadership from our elected representatives now for several decades. Looking at the political landscape from the inside for all these years makes me aware of how often legislators are trapped by the limitations placed upon them by those who placed them in office. They're often far more willing to grow and change in light of new evidence than the folks back home will allow. Would that other parts of the country could reflect the growth that these good folks experience in office. The political ferment here in our region is visceral and citizen participation as natural as breathing. However, this freedom stops short just outside of the Bay Area boundaries, unfortunately, and much of the rest of the State reflects attitudes found in the newly designated red states.

Having been privileged to have worked in this field for some of the most dynamic leaders and participated in kitchen tables debates with others, I'm more aware than ever just why it is that I'm so reluctant to leave the stage. Still waiting edgily for that tap on the shoulder from my replacement. The Lees and the Boxers and those waiting in the wings to succeed them will continue to lead the way out of the political swampland we find ourselves in -- if there's enough time, that is. They're in training now in the National Womens Political Caucus, in NOW, in NARAL, and in the organization of younger women called EMERGE where the mentoring and coaching is going full steam ahead in preparation for the next decade of leadership. Both Barbaras came out of and are strongly supported by these organizations.

We're finally seeing the positive effects of female influence in high places, and it makes me hopeful. And, for the moment I'm skipping over the scariness of the image of the other image of "women in high places," that embodied by The Ice Queen, Dr. Rice! Transforming female energy into more power while holding fast to the qualities that separate us from our brothers will be the challenge of our time. Good governance probably requires a proper balance between our Yang and Ying, and will take awhile to achieve -- at least until our numbers increase in the Halls of Congress. Meanwhile, our two courageous Barbaras from home will have to do -- and we'll keep enabling them to the extent that we can for as long as we can.

Now to watch the rest of the proceedings.

I'm tired. Rarely true for me, but today I'm feeling spent; used up. Old.

Maybe it has to do with waking to the sounds of the confirmation hearings of Condoleeza Rice, Ice Queen of Empire. I suddenly felt ancient and impotent. One would have to wonder where this jog in the road toward full equality hit the fatal destructive speed bump. Shouldn't I be feeling victorious? Shouldn't this be the crowning reward for all the years of working toward seeing an African American woman in this position of supreme power? What went wrong? Why do I want to climb back into bed and pull the blankets over my head? Is what I'm feeling shame? Defeat? That this travesty should be taking place on the birthday of Dr. Martin Luther King adds a note of particularly cruel irony.

Is it possible that -- by the time we African Americans reached the rarified air of the halls of power and all that implies -- we've become hopelessly corrupted by a political system so distorted that even hatred of black/brown skin is less important than out-of-control greed for power and promise of financial gain? What happened that the "water is being carried" by black conservatives for white power brokers on so many fronts? A new form of slavery to the Right? What are the payoffs for them?

What has been gained by Chairman Michael Powell (FCC), Secretary Colin Powell (now thinly-masked displacement for non-comforming to policy); soon-to-be-gone Regent Ward Connerly who has single-handedly fought affirmative action for years resulting in a dramatic loss of enrollees in the universities; Justice Clarence Thomas whose record on the court is an embarrassment to African American Progressives everywhere; and now Armstrong Williams who was an apologist and staffer for the infamous racist Senator Jesse Helms for years and clerk for Justice Thomas -- and now openly admits to taking $250,000 of public funds for lobbying the No Child Left Behind legislation to Black families. What's happened to us? The numbers of sepia turncoats grow with each day as the rewards accumulate from corporate interests and political muscle.

With governmental and corporate control now firmly in the hands of White male Republican conservatives, the voices of African Americans that would serve to balance these opportunistic ones are absent from the debate. Rep. John Conyers, Maxine Waters, and many others are speaking out but not being given the coverage that might balance the impression that we've all sold out and that the civil rights struggles have been lost. Without looking closely at the reality being lived out in the inner cities, one might believe that we have overcome. Not so. I shudder at the thought that anyone would believe the huge numbers of folks now firmly dependent upon the underground economy fueled by the drug trades. And there is apparently no attempt being made to change this reality. The destruction of the safety net and system of public education that helped to lift the willing and able out of poverty is now almost complete.

I live where there is clear evidence that little is being done to stem the tide of the greatest warehousing of non-white Americans in history; the march of young black males into either the armed forces (by coercion and lack of opportunity in the public sector), or, into the prison systems -- both state and federal.

It matters little that Condoleeza Rice et al can now dine with the president while listening to Mozart -- while many of those they represent are passionately belting out gospel music while having to settle for fewer meals under fewer roofs while cowering from the all too common deaths by street violence.

At an earlier time there was an attempt at thinning out those deemed defectives through Eugenics. The same ends are now being achieved by channeling those seen as less than human into wars and prisons through policies produced by an interracial body of policymakers. I suppose that denotes a kind of progress, but does it indicate that the nation is reaching for the same stars Jefferson, Madison, Adams, and Franklin aspired to, or have we misplaced the moral compass in our time? Somewhere there was a fork in the road; one that Dr. King perceived, and surely sacrificed his life for in the effort to change the destructive course followed by the nation that he so loved.

I worry now about that "road not taken..." .

Do you suppose it's too late to make the corrections and turn the Ship of State about? We may have to sail into the wind for a while, but surely there is the will and the desire to save ourselves, our children, and a world of people who until very recent history, aspired to be just like us.

Today -- as many of those of us living under the power and the will of these strange leaders -- are fearful as they whose countries we are pillaging and occupying so ruthlessly.

We need now to grow beyond our racial prejudices for an entirely new set of reasons. Evil has no skin color. Ignorance and blind ambition come with no credentials that would insure fairness or compassion. Both Dr. King and Malcolm X arrived at those conclusions before facing extermination. Maybe that's the legacy that needs our attention and dedication if we're to survive this period of fascistic peril.


Now it's back to the East Gate at San Quentin for a day of hope with other lovers as we await tonight's execution. Perhaps we'll find that this new governor will grant us a pause while the prisoner's brain-damage (not allowed presentation during his trial) is reconsidered. I've little hope of this happening, but maybe there are some voices that the governor will hear. Maybe the moratorium will begin to gain support soon. Surely this is an issue that is gaining ground since Barry Schect's Innocence Project has so successfully freed so many who were wrongly imprisoned. Could be; if enough of us are paying attention, and care enough to enable the best in us to surface and prevail.

Amen ... .

Eventful week; mostly interesting and life-affirming.

Midweek I met for lunch with the young women with whom I worked for the past five years. Got all caught up on their lives and the "what next," since three have now left the office that had taken up so much of our lives. One will now join the staff of State Senator Pro Tem Don Perata, and should be a gift to his crew. Another is moving out of politics to do journalism on a larger scale for a major newspaper. The third has continued on in the old office with our best wishes for an expanding future. It was great to see them again. We range in age from 26 to me, and that's a broad slice of womanhood and a tribute to our ability to span the years and continue to learn from one another. It was a good run, and I miss them.

On Friday evening there was an invitation to dinner with my friend's family (son and his lady, daughter and husband and son) at his favorite S.F. restaurant, Tadich in the financial district. After dinner most of us drove out to the Exploratorium for a solo performance by the incomparable Joanna Haigood of Zaccho Dance Theatre. It was an exciting show in this unique setting where she serves as an artist in residence. Introducing this (European) family to one of my favorite African American artists was great. They were spellbound and I was as moved by her grace and choreography as ever I've been.

On Saturday evening I attended the fiftieth birthday party for Melita Sims-Agbabiaka Ph.D., where I'd been asked to say a few words of inspiration during the program at some point in the evening. This is a family of ten siblings who could fill any evening with magic -- they're all teachers and entertainers and as outgoing and loving as any group of people I've ever known. In addition to performances by the adult members of the family, thereis a group called "Prodigy" made up of their children, all under 10. They're dancers and musicians and poets, and all as talented as one can imagine. They'll be appearing in concert later this month (February?) at the Oakland Unitarian-Universalist Church in an evening of music and arts as a benefit for the purpose of re-opening their charter school in Richmond. This would be the Barbara Alexander Academy that I may have talked about way back in the archives. What an honor to be invited to be a part of their celebration to Dr. King's memory in their lovely home with their many friends and supporters. Great evening!

Sunday was a study in contrasts: Friend and I attended a concert in suburban Lafayette that featured the 12-14 musicians of the Gold Coast Chamber Music Group whose artistic director is the daughter of my more-more-more constant friend whose name I'm trying hard not to mention.

My African American world this weekend was heavily marked by the King celebrations. No mention in the suburban sold-out chamber music concert. Should be no surprise, and wasn't. The afternoon was filled with Kreisler, Vivaldi, Bach, Mozart; all totally European. We'd crossed the East Bay Hills to a world transformed totally from the one I'd left less than 40 minutes and 20 miles ago in Richmond. What may have been the greatest surprise was the fact that I didn't even notice it at the time, only now in the writing about it. I've grown accustomed to these huge cultural leaps between short distances in the Bay Area, the state, and the nation.

After the afternoon concert we drove in to meet friends for dinner at a lovely Vietnamese restaurant, La Cheval, in downtown Oakland before attending the 4th annual Martin Luther King Birthday Concert at the Kaiser Convention Center on the shores of Lake Merritt. This was an evening of excerpts from his powerful speeches projected on a huge screen, the Oakland Youth Choir, the Oakland Jazz Choir, the Gospel Hummingbirds Quartet, and the presentation of the Humanitarian of the Year award to a woman whose work has been pivotal in creating services for the homeless and those suffering from HIV-AIDS. The audience and the program was all African American inspired, though performed by an interracial cast that represented the multi-racial multi-cultural makeup of this interesting city. The audience was probably 40% African American and deeply responsive.

This morning I joined with UU minister Rev. Paul Sawyer and a number of other members of the clergy at the East Gate of San Quentin Prison to honor Dr. King's memory by participating in a worship circle in the shadow of Death Row. It was heart-warming and needed to be since the day was gray and cold and the numbers few. There was a drummer, a flutist, a woman dancer, plus about 25 good folks standing witness for what we hope are the many thousands of peace activists and anti-death penalty advocates across the country and the world whom we firmly believe we represent. There were readings and then testimonies from each of us strangers standing closely for warmth and inspiration. There were several sound trucks from the media and lots of cameras manned by silent newsmen. There were interviews by a number of reporters I didn't recognize, but whose newspapers are familiar.

At a point in the proceedings, after the singing of "We Shall Overcome" those ready to commit to the act of civil disobedience lined up at the East Gate behind a string of Tibetan prayer flags, mostly ministers but also including several young men I didn't know plus the graceful dancer who continued to move gracefully as though alone on the planet -- but now behind the string of flags, against the defining East Gate. We knew that there would be a time when those of us who would not want to be arrested would have the opportunity to walk away. There was a short conference on the other side of the gate between guards and other prison personnel. They knew the drill. All had been here before -- Paul and the others for many years since the moratorium on the death penalty was lifted long ago. Being arrested was expected -- invited, and the time had come to get through the inevitable.

I walked up to the gate to where the demonstrators were standing steadfast and whispered into Paul's ear that this time I could not commit. I'd left Dorian at home alone, and there was no way to know how long it would take for the police and the jailkeepers to get through their process. Routine though it was, I'd left her to her own devises for most of the past two days, and though she enjoys the freedom from Mom, this was a day that we needed to be together. Dr. King would understand. Paul understood.

I walked away in the cold gray fog and wondered about Stan "Tookie" William and Kevin Cooper, waiting on Death Row as the next to be exterminated by lethal injection. Everything is in order. Kevin's stay has come to an end, and Stan's appeals have been exhausted. Denied. These deaths will be as inevitable as the fate of today's demonstrators -- being hauled away and released until the next batch of protestors arrive tomorrow morning leading up to the execution on Wednesday. It's so horribly automatic. A kind of macabre dance that has now become completely routinized.

Is the downward spiral of our humanity so ordinary now that we'll stop noticing even the Abu Graib's in our future as we allow the continuing taking of lives in our names? Is not the ignoring of the Geneva Accords and the hardening against those we've dubbed "the enemy" more evidence that we're becoming de-sensitized to the taking of lives -- except for in those in the womb? Is it conceivable that language has become so polluted by rhetorical distortions that the old words have lost their meaning totally? Why the paradox of the "Right To Life" that doesn't extend to those taken in war or in the death chambers of our prisons? Or, that makes foetal life more valued than mother life? How is it that we're on a unprecedented drive to save the 173,000 lives of those crushed by the tsumani yet continue to turn our backs on those over 100,000 civilian deaths we're adding to daily in Iraq? Where can we begin to explore these anomalies without the shouting that keeps us from hearing one another?

We are diminished as a species with each intentional death.

Perhaps I'll join the others who'll gather at the East Gate tomorrow, if only to test my own courage in a place and time where I have some control. Iraq, Indonesia, and even Washington, D.C., are too far away to have an impact. This is a war that I can effect, even if only a little ... .

Maybe I'll provide the tipping point for change

Maybe ... .

When will we begin to notice?

Received a call from the past a few days ago ...

It was from UU minister, Rev. Paul Sawyer, formerly of the Berkeley Fellowship of UUs and the Onion in Pasadena. He was calling to say that on Monday, January 17th and the birthday of Dr. King, a group of stalwarts from around the state will gather near the gate at San Quentin to protest yet another execution and to demand a moratorium on the death penalty. Eldred, formerly the leading advocate has passed on now, and it's up to others to carry on in his name and that of Dr. Martin Luther King. "Will you join us?" How can I not?

On Sunday my friend and I participated in a gathering of vintage car owners in Mountain View at the NASA-AMES Space Museum. Later we sat in a diner in Hillsdale where I would meet my first giant apple-popover and a cup of tea. During the conversation I mentioned the demonstration coming up and in the process found myself assuring him that I did not plan to get myself arrested for civil disobedience activities but that might be beyond my control. We'd never talked about such things, but I was surely aware that our politics were in synch and that he would hardly be surprised. Didn't ask that he join me, but might have easily done so if I didn't firmly believe that these are individual commitments and needn't be imposed on others, nor did they need any friendly validation.

He mentioned in passing that -- given the state of the world at the moment -- little attention would be paid to such activities, worthy though they might be. I agreed. What with wars and "rumors of wars" and tsunamis and mudslides, etc., a few hardy souls gathered at the gates of San Quentin would hardly be noticeable. Quite true.

Have been thinking about that over the past hours -- wondering why I must do this. Being with Paul and the others, activists who have held this vigil at every execution since the moratorium was lifted in this state in the early nineties is a must do. They travel from far and wide to meet in the yard near the gates. I've only participated in one such, and it was a frightening experience. It was held on a dark moonless night with police helicopter flying overhead to overwhelm the bullhorns of the crowd that had gathered in a vigil.

I was further disturbed by the presence of the death penalty supporters who wielded signs proclaiming that support and spewing hatred for those of us who were surely not claiming support for the man strapped on that table in the prison, but wanting to plead for some sanity to prevail so that another life would not be taken for whatever reason. The subtly of our differences went unnoticed by those screaming for vengeance in the name of the families of the victims. It is all so wildly confusing!

I was at the time working with the state and saw the need to have this experience after receiving a letter from a constituent describing the abuses suffered by the demonstrators at the hands of prison staff during just such a demonstration. I needed to respond to him in the name of the Assemblymember I represented. I also wanted to know what it was like to actually be present at the time of a state execution. I was surely opposed to having any life taken in my name, but to that point it was hypothetical, only, and I needed to feel the feelings and know that pain for myself.

The issue had become more than academic since I'd visited with a death row prisoner, Stanley Williams, with Ms. Winnie Mandela, Barbara Cottman Becnel (of the film, "Redemption") some time before and been shaken by the experience. I'd been exposed to a man who, though convicted of 1st degree murder, had now spent over 25 years on Death Row -- 7 of those years spent in solitary confinement. That many years totally alone had been a transformative experience and I am certain that the man scheduled to die by lethal injection was not the man who had -- as an enraged young man -- been someone else. It was eerie. This was the same experience that had shaped Nelson Mandela at Robyn Island -- into the remarkable human being he would become as president of South Africa in later life. Meeting this quiet and unassuming Stanley Williams was one of the most disturbing experiences of my life to that time. I'll never forget him. It's also true that all of his appeals have now run out and that there is only one other execution scheduled between the one occurring next week, and his own. I'm not sure how it will feel to still have the memory of a warm and friendly embrace as I was leaving the prison community room -- from a death row inmate who will soon die to make the world safer for me... .

I'm sure that whether or not the world is paying attention, I will join the others simply because of the need to bear witness. Being there has less to do with changing others. Whether or not anyone notices that we're there, we will have changed ourselves. That change may be all I need to enable me to confront the issue with whatever leadership figures I meet in more effective ways. It may mean that -- sometime in the distant future -- I will have become a part of the critical mass that it will to take change this crime against humanity.

It makes no sense to kill people to prove that it is wrong to kill people!

One day someone with the power to change it will really hear that and say, "of course."

(Check out "Tookie's Corner" for the web site of Stanley "Tookie" Williams, Death Row inmate twice nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.)

More musings for a Sunday morning years after leaving the religion of my fathers.

From a note from Morah:

"...but some of their theories, which turn out to be fact, wind up killing millions. Ethical discussions within the scientific community often rest on whether the results of their investigation should be brought to fruition...".

Morah, I don't pretend to be choosing science over religion or spirituality. Hope I didn't give that impression. There is an area of my life that cannot be persuaded by mere scientific theory. It is that part of my life that I claim as my spiritual side. It is in that place where lots of experiences are secreted, experiences that cannot be explained by any known scientific theory. It is here (probably right brain) where those things that I cannot see, hear, nor touch but which I'm certain -- exist -- are held. I'm sure we all share this. Last year's strange set of experiences surrounding the death of my son; a case in point. There are other examples in my life when reason stands on its head and logic stands challenged. The only way to handle the unexplainable to myself is to simply leave it all in suspension and accept the notion that such human phenomena is universal and the raw stuff that formed the basis of organized religions throughout all cultures.

Trying on a variety of possible explanations takes up the quiet places and intervals of wonder from time to time, especially in the presence of extraordinary events or sights -- standing on the rim of the Grand Canyon or in the shadow of thousand year-0ld giant redwoods, or just looking up at a staff-filled sky when I can find it, or looking into a sleeping baby's face ... .

My Catholic upbringing didn't provide adequate answers, nor did the almost purely intellectual Universal-Unitarianism of my adulthood. My truth lies somewhere in between. I'm sure that I won't live long enough to satisfy my constantly evolving battery of questions because they grow in direct proportion to my increasing knowledge -- a losing game.

I'm inclined to believe that the process is all that really matters. The wondering and speculating has enriched my life and kept me humble in ways that I don't see in many who arrived at their answers early in life and ceased to expand beyond some generic previously-determined age-old faith -- by whatever name. I will never be certain enough to evangelize. I will surely search for my own truth until I close my eyes for the last time, but always with the caveat that I may be wrong. The longer I live, the less being right is even relevant. Wrong and right have so many faces.

It's my suspicion that more of the answers are embedded in science than not. Following the work of frontline physicists, many of whom have been deeply influenced by Tibetan Buddhism (as was my late husband), is more than intriguing. But science not tempered by personal spirituality and without an ethical base may be as evil as religious fundamentalism based upon "The Word" without compassion for humanity.

You can see that my thinking remains confused. Stuck. Waiting for the next few magic words or phrases to point to some new pathway -- unlock some new doorway. I often find those openings in just this kind of conversation with other seekers.

Thanks.

Rainy weather introspection ...

This is a day for cleaning and tossing -- and rediscovering words written at another time to one no longer living.


From Walden Yale: "...It tells me that you do not yield to substituting the ease and acceptance of the human gift or pitfall of imagination, and choose the more difficult path of continuing to quietly ponder, wonder, study, experience while living a life worth living to its end..."


Walden: along with Laura's lovely post on The Emperor and her new thoughts on The Color Purple," the words above bring to mind that one of the signs of maturity may well be an increasing comfort with uncertainty. Maybe -- as we age -- we develop more respect for how much there is to be known, and of how wanting we humans are to encompass it all in but one lifetime.

Remember hearing recently on NPR a scientist describing the great migrations of the monarchs from the east coast of the USA to the welcoming trees of Argentina. Because of the distance and their fragility as a species, that trip to and from over those countless miles over a lengthy period of a year (as I recall), requires four or five generations between departure and return. Remarkable, isn't it? This extraordinary example of an astounding application of natural law is mind-boggling, indeed.

That provided a new pathway of thought for me when I started to muse on the possibility that I am (we are) on a grand migration through life that is dependent upon my ability to lean on and learn from all those with I come into contact, and that it is essential to all of existence that my role be well played and my contribution be beyond my own needs. Interesting thought, isn't it? Perhaps takes us all to know and with few exceptions, not many of us hold within ourselves the power to go it alone.

As with those monarchs, none among us knows from whence we've come, or where we will finally light, but they go on soaring through the universe with neither compass nor bible, bearing their progeny and wending their way into the future -- guided by some unrevealed universal plan that surely will bring them "home."

Natural science has documented the fact of their flight, but the magical "flight plan" is beyond human comprehension.

A part of me is intrigued by the thought of being a "monarch" who will defy known reality by thrusting myself into the unknown in order to participate in whatever comes next. My strong belief is that next is merely non-existence and a return to the matter from which I've come. That I need all of you to complete the journey is about all I'm really certain of, and that there is but one life -- and that we're all living it.



Betty on another thoughtful morning ...

Well! That didn't last long.

All that was needed was a phone call from someone who might generate a need to fill, and the fear dropped away as fast as mercury! Two days back in town and it feels just as it did before the trip to Eden; right and homelike. Camelot now feels more than mere miles away -- off on some other planet, maybe. Wonderful to experience for brief periods but now pretty surreal in the plain light of day ... .

Maybe it will take time to absorb and accept. Maybe I'm just not ready for that much wonderful-ness.

First came the steadying call from Melita, "...will you speak a few inspirational words at my fiftieth birthday party on January 15th?" "Sure." Then noticed the reminder on the refrigerator door, "...here are your tickets for the reserved section at the Martin Luther King celebratory concert on Sunday, January 16th. We're so happy that you've agreed to be one of our honored guests." Now that I've lived long enough to have literally become Black History, there are expectations to be fulfilled and honors to receive and enjoy. This is a very different world. Richmond is a part of that. For whatever it's worth, so is my racial background and culture. This is where the rewards of black life bring a visceral response from deep inside me. My entire life and the choices I've made have been colored by experiences that shaped me and my vision of the world.

The occasional views I got for extended periods of time showed me another way. Lived "outside" for the ten years of my marriage to Bill, and it was heady and exciting. But there's a richness in black culture that nurtures my soul and when I move away from that too far, I get disoriented. Unsteady. Lost. And in the looking back from outside, I tend to see this (black) world as marred, less, violent, confused, hopeless, -- because I'm seeing through the borrowed lens of "outsiders". I don't think I'll live long enough to bring all that together into any kind of coherent system that will hold my life steady.

Maybe, in that instant when I made the turn off Highway 128 to the vastness of the ocean and that oh so different world, my lens was turned to "outsider" and the contrasts of white/black urban/rustic life stood bare and harshly at odds. I couldn't shift realities quickly enough to ward off the shock. Makes sense to me. The feeling of safeness that I experienced there may be as illusory as the feeling of danger that walks with me through the dark streets of West County. I don't know. I do know that basking in the warmth of that feeling of security and caring sharpened the terror level to reflect that which is now being imposed from the world as beamed from the media hourly. Maybe it was just too much to absorb in a single weekend.


Living one's life on a bridge is precarious. I learned long ago that it would be necessary to choose sides in order to find peace. I thought I'd left the bridge long ago; that I'd chosen. Actually I've made that choice several times, each time for different reasons. Each time I've returned "home."

There is always pain in the choosing. It always leaves people I love behind -- on either side. It appears that we must cross that bridge alone, invariably as exceptions to the rule.

Perhaps that was really the fear that I've been running from. Fear that I can never bring my whole self to either side -- but must make impossible compromises for the sake of those whom that life effects.

Getting lost in "the work" has always served me well. Maybe it will again.

But for now ... I'll just hold steady until a pathway clears. Maybe when I'm rooted again in meaningful work I'll find the pattern for movement ahead. For the moment I'll stay the course.

But for today, at least, fear and the acceptance of the idea that I am fearful are under equal control. Allowing myself to acknowledge the level of terror I've often lived with is a threat to my sanity. Staying sane in an insane world was always the challenge. It still is.

Perhaps when there is enough reciprocal caring, the way reveals itself and "the world" property alters its course to fit. (And what kind of an insane statement is that?)

Could it be that simple?

This may be the very first time in my personal history that New Year's Eve lived up to its promise.

I can't remember a time when I felt so warm and cherished and sheltered ... and even now ... I'm not sure why that is... .

Drove home through a rainstorm on Sunday morning. It was like a curtain descending on an implausible vignette written by some unknown romantic and acted out by two unlikely character actors. Strange.

There was no preamble; a sketchy introduction; and, so many obstacles to overcome that upon arriving home yesterday I found myself unable to escape the feeling that -- at least for a few months -- my life will be lived in disconnected fragments with little continuity or reason. There will be isolated events with neither of us wanting to think of tomorrow or the day after. It comes with living in these years -- this bonus period when leftover life has to be ad libbed. It will be a period of now.

Almost no sleep last night. Lots of wide awake wonderings as if the forefront of my thoughts had been concealing those things that were giving energy to this friendship and that -- once quiet -- the new reality revealed itself from somewhere just beneath conscious level -- where the emotions reside waiting to be evoked by events.

There were suddenly tears. Climbed out of bed and turned the light on. Insight. I'd begun to feel the world drop away on the drive north -- somewhere in the passage through the redwood forest -- I was listening to a Sarah Vaughn Brazilian song from a CD I'd thought to bring along. I didn't know then just what I was driving toward. But something was in a state of change. I had no idea what that might be.

And, I didn't know that I'd lost it until it was being restored ... .

It has been many years since I've felt safe; totally, unconditionally, safe.

I'd lost any sense of just how frightened I've been over a very long time; many years. As I reached the place where Highway 128 morphs into Highway 1 and the ocean comes into view on that narrow stretch high atop cliffs that hang over the ocean, I could feel myself (paradoxically) driving into a "safe" place. Five miles further, when I turned into the private road leading to my destination, I could literally feel my jaws relax, the tautness in the muscles of my thighs give way to an easiness as I drove over the last speed bumps and my leg lifted lightly moving from gas to brake. I again felt the lightness as I turned into the driveway -- and then remembered that I'd left the overnight bag I'd packed for the weekend sitting on the bedroom floor back in Richmond! I would spend the weekend -- not in the lovely Indian dress I'd planned for the occasion, but in borrowed pajamas. The "best laid plans" are sometimes best laid aside. Maybe the need to improvise helped to break up predictability and freed inhibitions... .

Over many years, I've very clearly desensitized myself to the very real physical dangers I've had to confront daily in order to "do the work." And there's been a cost, I suppose, one that I've been paying without fully understanding it. I'm not aure that I do even now.

It's only in the absence of that fear that I'm learning that it was there all the time. Maybe I've been living my life much as those frogs who -- when placed in cool water and allowed to heat beyond endurance lack the will to hop out of the pot. Maybe it's like that.

But after returning home, last night as I re-played the weekend, the absence of the fear left a disturbing vacuum, a vulnerability which brought tears of relief. But now that I know that I'm afraid, what will happen to me? Will I be defenseless and live in quiet panic? Can I still "do the work"?

And what is there about this man -- who suffers such profound frailties of his own, yet radiates at least the illusion of protection and support? The years have been so much kinder to me, yet it is his kindness and warmth that seems to form a shield -- that and the endless expanse of the sea and sky from his window wall -- that minimized all that lies before it.

They say that the earth's rotation has been changed by the earthquake and tsunami in the south seas... .

Could be... .

Oh how I wish I had time to think through these feelings ...

but today I'm off to drive north and must be on the road soon.

Been wondering why the horror of the Far East has almost left me mute. Couldn't bring my thoughts together into any coherent form. Then -- as is generally the case -- woke in the night with the pieces beginning to form a reaction.

I've been unable to pull it together because it's too crazy! The world, I mean. Blanking it all out then letting it back in, one thought at a time, saves sanity.

Why do those casualty figures not bring up terror for me? It's because of the weirdness that -- as has been true ever since childhood -- I seem to be alone with "truths" that no one else is reflecting back to me. It's terrifing to feel so alone.

I cannot be the only soul on the earth who sees the insanity. "125,000 bodies now recovered with the count rising every hour." That's for Indonesia. "Over 100,000 civilian deaths with more unaccounted for. That's for Iraq. Why isn't the world responding to the Iraqi deaths similarly? Why is there such a profound difference between how we see the loss of old men, women, and children, lost to the avarice and greed for power by man in the Middle East as tragic as those lost to an act of nature? Why are we not as horrified, outraged, as giving of aid from the abundance of the "free" world? Where is the international outrage? Where is ours? Where is mine?

I simply don't understand ...

But over the 3 hours it will take to reach my destination, I'll live with the puzzlement and try to find my way back to some kind of rational explanation.

Ed Murrow left us way too soon ... He would surely be asking such questions, don't you suppose?

Insight!

It took more than eight decades to see the truth. What a hoot!

Received word today from my friend that -- though the sky is filled with sunlight for the moment -- there are ominous warnings of a huge storm on the way. His words sounded fearful. I'm certain that playing into the feelings is the horror being experienced in the Far East as the result of the earthquake and tsunami. He lives at the edge of the Pacific.

I have an irrational fear of storms brought on by having lived through a major hurricane at around the age of 6 in New Orleans. Never recovered. At the first low rumble of faraway thunder, I begin to have sweaty palms, a racing heartbeat pounding in my ears, and a heightened sense of immediate danger. Whatever the time of day I head for bed, climb in and pull the covers up over my head and cover my ears as tightly as possible. It's by now a conditioned reaction and as automatic as the sun rising in the east. On those rare times when I've been caught away from home or on the highway, panic reigns!

Then I remember my grandmother's voice saying to that frightened little girl, "...climb into bed, Betty. No one has ever been known to be struck by lightning while in their bed." Wise woman. Her voice comes back even now, and as if caught in a time warp -- I'm still obeying that voice. The storms never got me, so those words above all others have proven to be true.

Today, since I'm examining that reflexive response in the abstract, I heard something else. I heard a very wise grownup creatively getting frightened little folks safely out of the way so that the big folks could do the things that must be done to protect the family from rising waters. How rational. How wise and wonderful.

Wonder now why it took so long to surface? Was it because the only time the behavior appeared were those times when the rare conditions prevailed and the psyche was on automatic pilot? Interesting... .

I think now about how many times -- when the sky's are dark and the wind rising -- whatever the time of day -- I quietly and casually climb into bed with a good book and an ear acutely tuned for the advancing storm ... still acting out of conditioning. And, when the thunder closes in -- how naturally I pull the covers up over my head, cover my ears, and cower against a terrifying world!

Makes me wonder about other physical reactions to traumatic events in life ...

...could this be what psychotherapists are ever probing for?

... one of those elegant simplicities in life?

I'm reminded again of Rendl-Nast's axiom -- "There are two forms of simplicity, one that comes before and one that comes after -- complexity."

...suppose this is an after?

It's over ...

the much-dreaded Christmas day that has become a marker for those missing from the table. Still aware of Rick's absence, but a bit less so this year. "Family" looks so different from the top of the pyramid. Having outlived both my parents, two husbands, one sister, an eldest son, while all those "Bettys" are still so alive and functioning inside creates no little confusion these days.

Christmas was always the day we three daughters and families returned to the home of our childhood. Dad was the turkey carver while Mother (never "Mom") handed out the side dishes and supervised the children's table in the breakfast nook in the kitchen. This WAS Christmas. All else was trimmings.

This year there was no children's table. No breakfast nook in a modern condo. My three offspring and my four grandchildren plus one grandson's girl friend made up the family. Son, David, was the carver. Everyone gathered 'roun' the table, perched on a strange assortment of "chairs" from the vanity stool to the piano bench and great-grandmother's little needlepoint rocking chair. We all fit very close but nicely.

But I'm at the top of the family pyramid now. And, my mother looks back at me from my bathroom mirror each morning. And, the rebel teenager Betty rages at a profane administration and daily outrages from news sources that intrude hourly, if allowed. And the thirty-something wonders if I'll see him today, or if his own family obligations will prevent our getting together before he has to return north? The practical 50 year-old Betty hopes that the gifts were appropriate and of all the right sizes and whether or not I kept the store receipts - and just where are they anyway?

Should I tell the kids that I've found this lovely new friend, or, do I just enjoy without having to get into details better left to discretion? (Sounds a little like seventeen again, doesn't it?)

Will spend the New Year's Eve weekend miles away to the north. It's been years since I even entertained any thoughts of partying.

Brings to mind the most disappointing New Year's Eve I ever spent. It was the time that Mel (1st husband) splurged and made reservations at the Claremont Resort Hotel in the Berkeley Hills. We were dressed in formal wear for the occasion. I felt beautiful in a gorgeous red gown. There was not a single soul under those crystal chandeliers that we knew. We were the only African American couple in sight. There was a fine banquet with a gold-paper crowns and tiaras at each table -- with whistles and festive balloons everywhere. At midnight this roomful of strangers stomped and yelled and kissed -- and it was the loneliest New Year's Eve I could ever remember! The two of us were simply lost in the grandness of the occasion with no idea of why this was? We'd signed on for all of the symbols and none of the substance. The magic wasn't in the accoutrements but in the friendships. It took a few more years of living before we'd learned that. Since that night I've looked with some sense of sadness at the sight of those ballrooms shown on television -- and wondered ... .

This year there will be few symbols. There will be caring. There will be time sitting before a roaring fireplace within 80 feet of the ocean, but high on a bluff (so not to worry). There may be a howling storm beating against the expansive window walls (nature at her most dramatic!). There will be a recently-discovered rich friendship to enjoy and the feeling of being deliciously wicked to boot!

Maybe just a wee bit of "license" comes with being at the top of the pyramid ... Needing no permission but my own.

Time is now so precious ... spending it with care is a must since the supply is finite. I'm discovering, though, that one must not dwell on the truth of that statement but must continue to live as though time is irrelevant -- a paradox. To do otherwise is to diminish the richness and reduce the life experience to increasing depression over approaching end times. It helps to have developed some juggling skills along the way ... .

Happy New Year!