I know why I am here. I am here to connect children to their voices, to their creativity, to each other and to the natural world. Some  might refer to that role as Teacher, but rather than a teacher, downloading new information into the minds of bright children, I prefer “Facilitator of the learning process.” A guide to ones own self-discovery. A lantern bearer, drawing the new generation ever closer into themselves and deeper into the world.

I have no information to give the children of today. My level of intellect is moderate at best, and afterall, they are the new models of humanity. Humanity 4.0. I run on a slightly older version of software, which is not to say that my operating system is any better or worse than their newer, updated version. It is only to delineate the new, fresh generation of children from the human beings of the recent and distant past. There is no precedence for these beings. They are brand new, never been seen before and with them they bring solutions to our problems that we cannot even fathom from our current state of perception. We have given them a wealth of problems to solve, and their hyper-evolved brains are actively processing solutions. Society may look at them and see a shifty bunch of computerized techno-phytes, but these children are truly brilliant. According to poet/philosopher Kalil Gibran, “Life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.” Life travels ever onward into the future.

There are some among us, of an even older operating system than my own, which came on the market in 1980, that still wish to uphold an educational system of downloading information into our children like stones into a bucket, making them heavy and bogged down with trivia and rules. I do not mean to suggest that reading, writing and learning the language of numbers are not fundamental life skills for a well-rounded human being to thrive, but it occurs to me that  what these children truly need is a guidance system. It would benefit them greatly to be supported in harnessing their own unique skills and gifts, their own booming voice to unleash for the betterment of our planetary and societal whole. I am in support of providing our children with an educational paradigm in which they are told they are genius. Where they are prized as the leaders of tomorrow. Where they know they have value and are nurtured to race forth with ambition to tackle the problems of today.

My last year of college in 2003 was the final year whereby ‘Critical Thinking’ was offered as a mandatory class. The following year it was excommunicated from the curriculum due to lack of funding, while at the same time a massive renovation of our football stadium was approved. The fact that ‘Critical Thinking’ was first introduced to me in my final year of college seems to be the first red flag. Why is this not a staple of a child’s education from an early age, introducing the necessary skills of discernment, comparative analysis and a belief that we have the ability to generate our own answers?

Our children are in the hands of a sputtering educational paradigm and they’re potential is suffering. They are so hungry for purpose. They are parched for inspiration. They sit and wait for us to open their cages and to let them out. To fly. To run free and to tackle this world they are inheriting. Instead we corral them in classrooms and continue to download their overcrowded little worlds with information. The old paradigm is defunct. It’s gotta go. Again, I say that I have nothing to give the children of the world except a mirror, where they may view themselves as the promise of the future. Where I tell them daily, “You are amazing, you are incredible, you can do anything.” They don’t need me to learn. Their little operating systems are the pinnacle of nano technology in the evolution of the human mind. It is my honor to support the defragmentation of their media laden little hard drives with quality time outside, breathing fresh air and scanning their environment for patterns of nature. I am blessed to provide them with simple tools to paint, to draw, to explore the outer fringes and inner landscapes of their own creative spirit. It is my greatest joy to introduce them to their voice, so that they may hear their own beautiful song that lives inside them like a rainbow bird.

I am not a teacher. I am a facilitator of the learning process for the children of tomorrow. I am here for them, and they in turn,are my teachers.

There’s a lot going down in the world right now. The earthquake and Tsunami in Japan seems surreal in its devastation, and for the past week my belly has felt leaden with the stories of these displaced people. Then there’s Libya, a country I barely recognize, but which is suddenly a place I’m supposed to concern myself with greatly. I’m still unclear about the goings on in Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Israel, Palestine. And how are our brothers and sisters recovering from the quake in Chile last year? Or our Haitian brothers and sisters? Our Kiwi friends? And how is our beloved Gulf; its creatures and those who make their livelihood off of her bounty? I am dizzy with it all, and the only way to find peace seems to be through a belief in a deeper sense of time. The concept of Deep Time was developed in the 18th century by Scottish geologist James Hutton and has become my own personal creation song.

The Earth is an ancient cosmic relic, and Life as we know it flourishes atop her lithosphere; the crackling crust that bangs together, enfolds itself, and splits apart from time to time. We live on a giant creme brulee crust, with its pudding underbelly, the asthenosphere, a viscous river of molten rock moving our tectonic plates about at a snail’s pace like 90-year-old shuffle boarders. The great events that shape our human history are but hiccups in the timeline of our planet, and I can’t help but observe these events with hope. With a slight re-calibration of my viewpoint, I can observe these events from a perspective of acceptance, because simply put, they are our present reality. According to the incredibly simple philosophy of Byron Katie, arguing with reality is insane. Life is simply as it is, and can be accepted or warred against. It’s our choice. I’ve found that making that choice is easier said than done, but with practice it becomes more involuntary, like blinking or the process of digestion. A possible perspective: Everything is perfect in the world right now. All is right with the world. In a single human lifetime, it might be hard to discern the opportunity now available to the Japanese people post-disaster. But if you go deeper and take a long-term approach to this situation, you might find that the canvas has been wiped clean for this nation. They now have an opportunity to rebuild, re-calibrate, realign, recycle, revise, recreate, reincarnate. As a result of the current pressures being placed upon the Japanese people, future generations will thrive in a more technologically, socially and spiritually evolved nation. I do not wish to suggest that hand in hand with that there will not be pain. Pain is inevitable, but with that pain there will be immense growth.

Geology for me has always been a balm to my human suffering. It puts into perspective the blink that is my existence in relation to the depth of earthly time. It is easy to forget as we lose ourselves in the flow of human drama that our species, Homo sapiens walked out of Africa only 200,000 some odd years ago and that our planet has been dated to roughly 4.54 billion years. That shit is old! And so much went down before we were even an idea. It’s as though the earth farted and humanity was born. That is an accurate parallel to the age of humanity in relation to the age of the earth. I recall visiting the La Brea Tar Pit Museum as a kid and a docent using a roll of toilet paper to illustrate our place in the Earthly story. If the entire roll of TP is the timeline of the planet, we are a small shred taken from the corner of the last piece. No bigger than a Tic-Tac, yet man are we self-important! I recall also watching a documentary once on the Permian Extinction, one of my favorite topics. Formerly known as the Great Dying, the Permian-Triassic extinction event occurred roughly 251.4 million years ago and was the Earth’s most devastating mass extinction. 96% of all marine life and 70% of all terrestrial vertebrate species died off. The biodiversity of the planet was decimated and took eons and epochs to recover to its presently flourishing state. Life took a hit, and moved on. Life re-organized itself and re-distributed its molecules into new and fantastic species after laying dormant in a deadlock for 4-6 million years.

The Earth has her own timeline, and perhaps hers is subject to one of greater magnitude. We do, after all exist within a universal system so grand, that even our Milky Way galaxy could be equated to that tiny Tic-Tac tear-off from the end of a roll of toilet paper. So in terms of dealing with our present reality, I choose to view it through the lens of Deep Time, knowing that it is all unfolding in perfect order, evolving and blossoming into ever new patterns of Life.

His name was Wladyslaw Szpilman. He was a Jewish pianist from Poland who somehow endured the brutal slaughter of the Holocaust. In learning of his story, just one in millions, I am silenced and humbled by his reality. Can it be true? Did a human being actually live through such vile shit? Despite insurmountable loss and the degradation of his dignity, it seems to have been pure luck that spared him from the never-ending onslaught of peril which befell the Jews of World War II. His story, as told in the film The Pianist and acted by Adrien Brody is a window of pain, a glimpse into the hell that was that time. Stories are so important, for without them, so much would be lost and film is such a vivid and expressive storytelling medium. Truly, the world as an entity and the endless procession of LIFE is indifferent to such stories. Life goes on, as it does, through the systematic death of genocide, through pain, through human emotion, through war and peace. It is only the human heart that declares and decries the importance of the story. The story of a life. One life. As insignificant as a blade of grass in a sea of wheat, yet so painfully beautiful that it demands its own relevance. Swollen with moments and bursting with memories. Full and rich with the colors of a being; their smile, their fears, laughter, passions, secret wishes and regrets. Each story is like a satin thread of it’s own unique hue, woven around and about, through and across family, friendship, romance, enemies, communities, people.

So much has been lost. So many bright flames snuffed out and stories untold. Immense talent, innovations, genius and gifts, bestowed upon our species by God, squandered and desecrated. Forgotten, if not but for their story. And if not but for their story, we run the risk of repeat. To ponder the dark elements of the past is a heavy pursuit, filled with great sadness. Stories unimaginable, unfathomable, as is that of Wladyslaw Szpilman, the Jewish pianist from Poland.

I would love to believe that such defective and atrocious human behavior has been retired, factored out culturally and genetically from our ubiquitous presence on the planet. Sadly, such is not the case. Human beings continue to suffer at the hands of eachother, whether actual genocide or genocide of the spirit. Today while listening to the radio, I heard an Indian woman speak of the abuse she suffers as a member of the lowest hierarchical Hindu class. People will not touch her. They spit in her face. Merchants throw what she buys on the ground and will not allow her to touch their wares, for fear that she will contaminate with her filth. She is forced to walk in the gutter, where she is presumed to belong. Her children are brutalized as outcasts. In Pakistan, a woman was sentenced to death for speaking of a spiritual path beyond Islam. For simply mentioning Christianity. For thinking. For expressing an individual and deviant thought.

What can be done? I don’t know. But I am aware of a certain perturbation in my mind as I expose myself to the stories of people. As I allow, through the medium of film, my eyes to witness their suffering and my heart to open in celebration of their life. As frames of their existence pass before my eyes I am filled with something that I believe moves mountains: Inspiration. When we are inspired, we are conscious. We are awake. We see. When our consciousness expands to new realms, we choose wisely and opt for the elimination of suffering on the planet. The Pianist is but one story of a life that flickered on in a long hall of great darkness. I recommend the film. I recommend exposing yourself to as many such stories as you possibly can, making you a person of the world. A person of compassion and celebration of the dignity of the human spirit. Below you will find a list of biographical films and non-fictional stories that I have found to be hugely inspiring. They open my mind and creep across my heart like vines, making me vigilant in the protection of LIFE and reverential towards our precious humanity.

Based on the true stories of people’s lives:

Milk, Frida, The Pianist, Schindler’s List, The Miracle Worker, Escape from Sobibor, Coal Miner’s Daughter, All the President’s Men, Norma Rae, Gandhi, Glory, Apollo 13, Braveheart, Dangerous Minds, Selena, Elizabeth, Saving Private Ryan, Boys Don’t Cry, Girl Interrupted, Erin Brokovish, Gorillas in the Mist, Remember the Titans, Seabiscuit, Wild Hearts Can’t be Broken, Hotel Rwanda, Miracle, Finding Neverland, The Motorcycle Diaries, Walk the Line, The Pursuit of Happiness, Freedom Writers, Tupac Resurrection, Into the Wild, Changeling, The Express, The Other Boleyn Girl, The Blind Side, Julie and Julia, The Social Network, I am Cuba.

I’ve got some thoughts going on in my head these days. They might more accurately be described as judgements, but aren’t judgements also thoughts in the end? In any case, judgements, thoughts, whatever. It’s refreshing to feel alive with the electrical impulsation of thought procession. Not sure if a few of my previous word choices actually exist, but either Einstein or Twain said something along the lines of “Any boring idiot can use the same old language over and over again. It takes a damn genius to invent new words and patterns of speech.” Inside of that context (which I just made up), I guess that makes me a genius. Low SAT scores be damned!

So let’s talk about Life. Life in the literal sense, yes, as in L to the I to the F to the E, but also Life in terms of the superb BBC documentary series narrated by none other than Oprah Winfrey. Personally, I would prefer the standard British narrator to Harpo because  he reminds me of geeking out on science shows when I was kid, but Oprah’s pretty rad, so she did just fine. My Netflix cue is generally stacked full of science/astrophysics/sex/anthropology/history/modern culture and political documentaries, being peppered occasionally with an unbeatable classic, such as A League of Their Own and Stand By Me (two excellent films), and the BBC LIFE series has not disappointed.

Last night’s episode: Fish, Birds and Insects. Shwing! The science geek in me died and went to heaven. I could go on and on about how un-freaking-goddamn-holy crap-amazing is the diversity of Life on this planet, with its evolutionary adaptations, elaborate mating rituals, super sly predatory tactics, blazing colors, trippy ass shapes, sizes, etc, but instead I will boil it all down to one profound revelation that befell me upon watching my animal brethren, insect sistren and pescatorial familia:

Animals Never Bitch!

With the exception of human beings of course, who think our shit don’t stink. And, contrary to popularly held beliefs, we still fall within the jurisdiction of the animal kingdom. Case in point: I have unwanted body hair. My back hurts at certain times of the month, I have yet to lactate, but I kicked off all of my blankets last night: clearly a sign that I am a warm-blooded, hair producing, future lactating female specimen of the Animal Kingdom, Chordata Phylum, Mammalian Class, Primate Order, Hominid Family, Homo Genus , sapiens special sauce species. AKA: an animal.

The difference between me and the rest of animal life on Earth is that I bitch a lot. My dog chewed up my slipper = I bitched. I didn’t understand how to operate Quickbooks = I bitched. It’s cold in my bedroom before I’m getting into bed = I bitch. The pound bag of quinoa in the cupboard breaks and spills all over the kitchen = I bitch. My boyfriend interrupts me = I bitch. I’m hungry = I bitch. The laundry basket is full and the dryer is broken = I bitch. Something happens = I bitch. Something else happens = I bitch. Basically, I just bitch a lot.

So I’m watching LIFE and suddenly, the frequency with which I bitch comes into stark focus. It’s an active behavioral pattern for me. If another species were studying me (and perhaps the entire human population), I believe they would conclude beyond question, that a common behavioral practice for my particular hominid species is to complain and/or bitch, about well, EVERYTHING!

I was highly inspired by how every single solitary animal reflected in this documentary undergoes immense trial and challenge throughout the course of its existence, and nary a whine can be heard. For Gods-sake, Monarch Butterflies. These little creatures made of paper mache migrate all the way from South America to Canada every year, over-wintering in a very specific and highly endangered grove of Oyamel trees in Michoacan Mexico. None of the 2 billion butterflies who begin the journey make it, but instead their full migration is completed within 3 generations, carrying on the DNA fulfilling prophesy where the last leg left off. Many die…in fact they all die, even before completing the task that they are so driven to fulfill. All die. None complain.

Then you have tiny Hawaiian Gobies that climb up the sheer cliff of a massive waterfall to reach the safe and secluded pools at the top. Climbing fish. Yes. Many fall. Many die. None complain.

In Africa, Barbel Fish skim the scum off of hippo asses and gladly eat their voluminous billows of poop. They literally “eat Shit” and yet, none complain.

The Lammergeier or “bearded vulture” of Ethiopia has to compete for carrion with other birds of prey. It has adapted a special technique to open up the rich marrow reserves inside of animal bones by dropping them from high altitudes onto rocks. Again and again they miss their target…I’m talking OVER and OVER again, and meanwhile, other birds enjoy the spoils that chip off. But yet again, they persevere and none complain.

Red-billed tropic birds hunting sardines to bring back to their chicks get drilled repeatedly by air pirates called Magnificent Frigatebirds who snatch them in mid-air until they barf up the sardine goods. Even though bullies steal their lunch, the Red-Billed Tropic Bird does not complain. Nor does the Magnificent Frigatebird, who has to eat regurgitated sardine barf mash.

In Chilean Patagonia, male Darwin’s Beetles have to climb up huge ass trees to find prospective females. Once they get to the top, they encounter other males whom they spar with over scarce female resources. Using their huge mandibles, they launch each other out of the trees hundreds of feet up and back down to the forest floor. Again and again a male has to tussle and launch, tussle and launch other males overboard, only to be met with a snooty and disinterested female. But in the end, after having his way with her, he throws her overboard as well, and no one’s ego is bruised, feelings hurt, traumatized, tears shed. No one is butt hurt. No one cares. Always single minded, the male loser just picks himself up and climbs on, undaunted in his pursuit of tapping some unsuspecting female beetle abdomen.  Notice again: Climbing a tree (difficult), getting the crap kicked out of him (not cool), falling from tree (sucky), no girlfriend (bummer), no female to launch off the side of the tree after having his way with her (disappointing). And yet, unbelievably, no bitching.

I am now bored with writing this entry and will close by saying that insects, birds, fish and all animals (with the exception of humanoids) are to be commended for their stoic nature as they face the tribulations of Life. I tried to follow their example today, but something happened and I found myself again…bitching! 

Blanch, Dorothy, Sophia and Rose. I had all but forgotten about them until my brother and his girlfriend, along with my own boyfriend discovered a treasure trove of DVD’s representing the first 3 seasons of the good old Golden Girls in a random bookshelf. Never knew they were there. While playing cards with a friend in an adjacent room, I hear the familiar intro song roll out, “Thank you for being a friend” and the corners of my mouth curl up in a smile of  happiness and nostalgia. “Seriously, the three of you are watching the Golden Girls? That’s amazing!” Out of all cinematic options available in the DVD collection of my current residence, that is what they choose.

Secretly, I don’t really think “They” had anything to do with it. I think God looked down at me and surveyed the situation of my life right now and said, “That woman could use a healthy dose of The Golden Girls to remind her of her own golden girly ness!” And thus, on a daily basis, I watch episodes of the ladies, laughing harder than usual at their geriatric antics.  Not sure what it is about them that brings me such bubbling joy. Perhaps its microscopic Sophia Patillo’s razor-sharp wit. Perhaps it’s Blanche Devereaux’s Southern belle flirtations and seductions. Or is it Rose Nylund’s airy innocence? Dorothy Zbornak is pretty great too. She drops some bombs on a pretty regular basis and she perplexes me in a delightful way. I wonder at the casting director’s choice of Bea Arthur, the broad-shouldered, baritone voiced woman who plays the brains of the show, but as I watch her dominate the stage in her angular shoulder pad-infused blouses, she’s perfect.

I smile. I smile more. I laugh and with a tiny bumblebee buzz of sadness, miss the grandmotherly figures of my own life. My great-aunt Julia Jones was a superb blend of all of these fantastic female archetypes, minus the simplicity of Rose. She was a sharp-witted, charismatic, loving, flirtatious, unrelenting woman in possession of a marvelous intelligence. My great-grandmother Virginia Green was of the same breed, with just a hint of Rose Nylund in her soul. A true southern lady, born and raised in Madison, Georgia and to her dying day a woman of great elegance and ceremony. The truth is, my beloved women are nothing like the characters of The Golden Girls. They are their own breed of character, and any one of them could serve as sitcom inspiration. I am a part of them. They shaped me like the little lemon cakes and cucumber sandwiches they so lovingly prepared for their Bridge games.

Watching the Golden Girls makes me feel like I’m drinking iced tea out of my Grammie’s sunflower glasses in her back garden again, as I did so many times as a child. Growing up, I preferred her company to that of my peers sometimes. I looked forward every week to having sleepovers at her house where I would help her pull weeds or sweep the garage for a nickel. Mostly I just sat around and listened to her as she schooled me Southern style on the importance of family and of being a lady. The “being a lady” lesson didn’t sink in until long after she passed, but I think she’d be proud of her own “Golden Girl” great-granddaughter. I once wrote a poem for her: “There is nothing like a grandmother, so tender and so sweet. Placing gentle kisses on a tiny babies cheek.” I took her piles of greeting cards she had saved for decades and made a flowery wall hanging. She loved it. The other day, while working in my garden pulling the ever-present weeds that like to wind their way around the base of my sugar snap peas and zucchini, I remembered a sign that hung on her own garden gate. The last time I physically laid eyes on that sign was about 15 years ago, and suddenly, there it was in my mind: “The kiss of the sun for pardon, the song of the birds for mirth, nothing is nearer God’s heart in a garden than anywhere else on Earth.” I’m in the process of re-creating it to be hung on the entrance of my own garden gate.

It is silly that I try to control the flow of LIFE, my life and the circumstances of it when I know darn right that it is inconceivable what I truly need and what is coming next. I never could have forecasted that my current muse and the source of my greatest joy would be a 3 disc DVD set of the Golden Girls, installed and played by my brother and boyfriend. Could anyone even imagine something so random? So here’s what I have to say to that: Dear God, thank you for The Golden Girls. And to the Golden Girls, thank you for being a friend!

Rest in Peace: Bea Arthur, Estelle Getty and Rue McLannahan

A six hour marathon celebration of the 200th birthday of Frederic Chopin. 85 musicians, both seasoned and novice, gathered at Cabrillo College in Aptos, CA to pay tribute to the brilliant Polish composer. Quietly they entered the room. Students. Pianists of all flavors and abilities, playing over 100 romantic compositions. I have been feeling a bit blue as of late, and it’s amazing the simple, songbird delight that infused my blue heart with gold when I closed my eyes this afternoon and listened to piece after perfect piece.  Peace. For me, classical music is like a gray matter brain massage. I can feel the scales of worry and doubt slough away and all thoughts in contrast to peace and calm fall from my mind like Autumn leaves. It is as though my spirit is being bathed in lavender scented soap, like a child being washed lovingly by her beautiful mother. My lips blossom at their corners into a sweet smile and I feel in these moments in perfect harmony with all. Within and without.

What I find most enchanting on this day is the story of Chopin’s posthumous opus. On his death bed, his one wish was to have his body of unpublished compositions burned. Over 100 pieces, nearly 40% of his life work, including my two favorites; Fantasie Impromptu and Nocturne in C Minor would have been consumed by flames and destroyed forever, had it not been for the disobedience of a sister. She did not have the heart to destroy such perfection, and instead listened to the ringing bell of  intuition and whispers of generations yet to come that wished to play her brother’s masterpieces. In her hands lay the pages of  genius, a man who would become one of the greatest Romantic composers of all time. This gift to the world she could not burn.

It makes me smile to think that this man wished for his brilliance to die with him, and instead it lives on through the tiny fingers of 6 year old musical prodigy’s and college students around the world. Exactly 200 years from the day of his birth, May 24th, 1810, I sit in an auditorium with my eyes closed, breathing softly, hands folded gently, my heart full of golden light and I am grateful for disobedient sisters.

Sometimes what we are given does not belong to us alone, but rather to the world entire and to life eternal.

LISTEN:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZR2KkA1JlFs&feature=related : 6 year old Hannah Hua playing Nocturne in C Minor.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=YQYYT3qlTu4&feature=related : 10 year old Enzo playing Fantasie Impromptu.

It is Black History Month and I want to give thanks, appreciation and great love to my dark skinned brothers and sisters of this planet. I have many times heard the phrase “My Brother,” and “My Sister” depart the lips of African descended people and I never thought much of it. At a church service this past Sunday, the minister, a gorgeous, powerhouse of a black man named Massia reflected on the 45th anniversary of the assassination of Malcolm X. He spoke to us, the congregation as his “brothers and sisters” and for the first time it entered my ear at a different angle. For the first time I felt in included in the phrase and realized that we are all, literally brothers and sisters of this beautiful human family. This filled my heart with such warmth and connection. It magnetized me to every person in that room before punching out the windows and seeping through cracks to ooze across the country and then float on a breeze around the world, embracing us all as one.

My brothers and my sisters. According to the internet, at 11:12pm PST on February 22nd, 2010 I have 6,803,231,490.

Massia talked about the path of Malcom X and Dr. Martin Luther King and what set them aside from the rest of humanity. What compelled them to leave with their martyred lives an indelible marks on the history of the world.  Centuries of oppression and cruelty inflicted upon my black brothers and sisters have come to this moment in time, where it all seems to be transmuting into an entirely new element. Through an alchemical process, a legacy of pain is being transformed into pure gold. The beautiful smile of a baby girl, her hair in braids and her brown skin as flawless as her soul beams at me and I see her life as the future of humanity. She is perfect, and she sits beside me in such peace and such possibility. The jewel of her ancestors. The treasure of life. They gaze down upon her with smiles of pride and great affection. Look how far our little angel has come! She stands on the shoulders of so many. She toddles the dusty path of slaves. She smiles and the guns of gangs melt to cool water. She is God, smiling at me through the eyes and baby teeth of a little girl with black skin and ebony eyes. I love her, and I wish for her a life of unbridled freedom.

I have few regrets in life, but one lingers. My freshman year of high school I had no friends. I was transfered to a new school and left behind all of my closest friends, who at that age were my entire world. Homecoming loomed on the horizon and no one had asked me to be their date. Then I met Thomas. The nicest, brightest, most well-mannered and polite young man I had ever met, who also happened to be black. He asked me to be his date to the dance and my heart swooned. Someone was actually asking me to the dance! ME! I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt, but my heart broke because I knew my family would never consent. I came from a very conservative family and if the grand matriarch, my great-grandmother ever caught wind of such a situation I would never hear the end of it. Growing up, racist comments were normal. It was the lens through which we communicated about the different people of the world. It never sat right with me, but for the most part I ignored it out of respect for my grandparents,  who I loved completely. They were my family and I loved them with all of my heart. I don’t fault or judge them for the way that they were. They were the product of their environment, the culture at that time in history. They simply were the way they were. I LOVE my grandparents and always, always will, but in that moment when Thomas asked me to be his date to the homecoming dance, I felt such a sense of defeat. I said no, out of respect for my family and it has hurt my heart ever since. If I could rewind the clock and go back to that moment I would have accepted his invitation and I would have gone to my freshman homecoming dance and had an amazing and dreamy evening. I would have enjoyed another human being for the content of his character and not declined his friendship based on the color of his skin. If I could find that young man Thomas, I would tell him how sorry I am for not having had the courage to stand for what I knew was right. For not having had the courage to follow my heart. Racism won that day, and the impact on my life has been mighty.

But we get second chances, and third chances and infinite chances until we learn and grow enough to live in love. So from the regret I have harbored for so many years about that day in high school when sweet Thomas asked me to be his date, all has not been wasted. I learned. For the years of oppression that black people have endured from the shores of Africa to the shores of Haiti, all has not been wasted. The sacrifices made over the centuries by my black skinned brothers and sisters have not been wasted. The lives of Dr. Martin Luther King and Malcolm X were not wasted. We continue to learn and grow enough to live in love.

The beautiful smile of a baby girl, her hair in braids and her brown skin as flawless as her soul beams at me and I see her life as the future of humanity. She is perfect, and she sits beside me in such peace and possibility. The jewel of her ancestors. The treasure of life. They gaze down upon her with smiles of pride and great affection. Look how far our little angel has come! She stands on the shoulders of so many. She toddles the dusty path of slaves. She smiles and the guns of gangs melt to cool water. She is God, smiling at me through the eyes and baby teeth of a little girl with black skin and ebony eyes. I love her, and I wish for her a life of unbridled freedom.

Why uproot a life and sequester treasures in brown boxes to be hidden away in the bowels of an uncle’s back room? Why drive for hours to a place unknown, only to start again amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces? Why leave the immense love beating in the hearts of friends, family, and familiar spaces you have grown so fond of? Why move?

Over the past few months since I first felt the stirring of of a potential move North, I have rolled those questions around in my mind like a lemondrop candy, the answers never fully materializing with certainty, yet an invisible thread of “Go. Move forward” pulling me steadily along, often against my will. ”But why?” I pleaded. “Everything is so good here. I love everyone so much. Life flows with such ease and so much laughter. Why must I go?” In response, only the invisible thread, pulling me with the whisper, “Go. Move forward.” And so I did, and here I am.

I feel like Alice, gazing at her reflection in the looking glass and on the other side is Wonderland, full of magical, whimsical things and friends and laughter and abundant love and joy. I place my hands up to glass and look in, delighted by what I see. But I realize that I’m here and they are there and it will take time for me to step through that portal into a “Wonderland Life.” As people, we are delicate little systems of emotion, feeling and thoughts and the transplant of a life from one community to another can be jarring. I have not been jarred, but in some ways it feels as though I’m only dreaming. For some reason and with deep trust, I listened to that invisible thread and I’m proud of myself for having the courage to step forth. Time will bring great abundance to my life and in fact it is already here. With each day here I encounter moments that feel more “real” and like they are mine, not borrowed in a dream.

On the drive up Pacific Coast Highway I passed a field of giant boulders and admired their perfection until the boulders began to fight and bang on each other’s heads. I realized that the boulders were in fact giant elephant seals in rut. I passed a meadow where a spring-loaded coyote bounded over and over again into the air, charming a small rodent of some kind. He caught his prize, looked up at me and grinned as he gulped some fat little thing down. I drove through the Redwoods with my windows down in the rain and breathed in the intoxicating velvet of forest mist. I drove past a family of deer, grazing in a blanket of yellow clover. I watched acrobatic yogis play leapfrog games along the cliffs at sunset and then fire spinners tease my eyes with magic. I spent $4 at the Farmer’s Market on the most amazingly fresh, local produce I have ever eaten. I walked into town and watched colorful, brilliant, eccentric and sometimes certifiably insane characters meander the streets on their own little missions. I walked on the beach in the fog with the seagulls and did yoga beside a snowy egret. I got my new library card.

All of these moments add up to the creation of my new life in Santa Cruz. In some ways, this is a love letter to the people to the South whom I bid farewell. You’re amazing love is what made moving a challenge. On another note, it is a love letter to what lays before me and to the thread that led me here. ” . . .  the learner must be led always from familiar objects toward the unfamiliar . . . guided along, as it were, a chain of flowers into the mysteries of life.” (author unknown)

A cascade of diamonds you surface and then twinkle down, to a pool of mirrors before disappearing again below the ground. Little spring of tiny sips, where velvet lips drink you in. You call Life by her name to sit beside you and drink from your bayou. Asking not a thing in return, you delight in her visits, as deer, coyote and bird.

Sounds of a forest

Sit. Listen. Quiet your mind and you will hear the gentle, almost inaudible chorus of the forest. It begins with the wind, played like a harp amidst the strings of leaves and twigs suspended above. The gentle percussion of water flowing ever so slightly over sycamore leaves and river bed cobbles. A dropping acorn. A squirrel missile, falling at my feet and pounding the leaf blanket of the forest floor like the tang of a cymbal, again and again. A raven, unseen, sounds the trumpet call. What exactly are you announcing friend? “I’m here! I’m here!” The forest ignores him as the sun pulls its curtains back to reveal the main stage… A white tailed deer drinks from a pool quite near. The chatter of some small bird. If only I spoke that language of cheer. In my imagination I hear it as, “Here, look! I’ve found a berry!” If you sit. Listen. Quiet your mind, then you will hear the gentle, almost inaudible chorus of the forest.

“Regardless of how attractive a female roadrunner may be to the male, it is she, not he, that does the choosing. After all, it is the female who must create eggs, be hampered by their weight as they develop within her, and eventually extrude them into the nest. This is no small feat, and requires an enormous cost of energy. If the female is going to run the risk of reproduction, she must find a mate who is fit, is an excellent provider, and is aggressive enough to ward off any other roadrunner that might threaten the couple’s territory. Perhaps most importantly, she needs his help in providing the tremendous amount of food required by developing young.

How does a female know which male will make a good mate and a reliable father? It appears that she relies on two behavior categories to provide the information she needs to make her decision. The first is the initial courtship. Amorous male roadrunners must proceed through a number of behavioral rituals that include lowering their head to the ground then raising it to the sky – a movement referred to as sky pointing. The tail is then moved back and forth – somewhat reminiscent of a dog wagging its tail. These behaviors are done intermittently during the initial courtship period. The make initiates courtship signals and the female mirrors the same movements. The ability of the male to properly perform these behaviors indicates that he is both physically and genetically fit.

The second male behaviour scrutinized by the female involves a gift of food. Shortly after sizing each other up, the male offers a twig or other piece of nest-building material. He may drop this at her feet and she may pick it up in her beak. This kind of offering is preliminary to further serious offerings. Serious offerings consist of food, but not just any food. Serious offerings must be vertebrate animals such as lizards, snakes, small birds, or small rodents. Only when a serious offering is presented will the female finally consent to mating.

I suspect that the offering of a vertebrate animal indicates to the female that her potential mate is fully capable of bringing in the kind of food that ensures the proper development of the young. Thus, when a female roadrunner selects a male with proper hunting abilities, she maximizes her chances of raising a healthy brood.

Copulation is repeated many times during courtship. Actual mating begins by the male approaching the female with prey in his beak. He then jumps precariously onto her back. The mating process is over in seconds and ends when the female turns her head upward and grabs the food from her mate’s beak. Interestingly, the male never allows the female to take the prey until after mating. When the roadrunner finally finds a mate, the mate is kept for life.”