Warm and Fuzzy

An American Southwest Medicine Woman once said, “First, let’s interpret your morning. Tell me how it was getting here, and I will tell you about yourself.”

Uh-oh.

I woke up at 5am with a rogue wisdom tooth trying to push its way out of my upper right gum. It was swollen and painful as little chunks of cementum, enamel, dentin (or whatever teeth are made from) emerged amidst blood and an odd tasting liquid. Of course I was spitting up and feeling ookey.

When I flipped the switch to the coffee maker, the grounds backed up and overflowed, creating quite the mess on the kitchen counter.

Then at Market, the first person to bless our booth was a woman with a large, noticeable scab right below her left nostril. She was momentarily infatuated with our line of jewelry and requested to look through every single piece, including our secret stash. Her enthusiasm wilted mine as she proceeded to pick at her scab then touch everything in the booth.

She collected a pile of jewelry she was interested in purchasing and my repulsion to her was slightly offset by the hope of a sizable sale. But then she switched from picking her scab to picking apart the jewelry. Nothing suited her after all. “Do you have the silver one in gold? I’d prefer the blue in red, this is too big, that one’s too small,” etc. and on it went.

After spreading her germy, crusty bits she lamented that she just couldn’t find anything and that maybe she’d “be back.”

Okay, Ms. Medicine woman, I told you about my morning, so bring on the woo-woo.

Now I get to quote her… “There’s little difference between the sleeping and the waking dreams of everyday life, with all their mystery and drama. To begin crafting your vision, you must become aware of your waking dreams and their symbolism. Symbols are everywhere and everything that you experience mirrors a part of you – so when you can perceive reality in this way, you understand how you’re already dreaming your world.”

Please bear with me. The next part may be a skosh confusing as we look at the symbols and interpret the “waking dreams” of my morning. Then, if we figure it out, hopefully all will make sense. I’m too embarrassed to mention that I failed to look before sitting down to tinkle and didn’t notice that the toilet seat was up…so I think I’ll leave that part out and concentrate on these five.

1. Wisdom. 2. Teeth. 3. Breaking through. 4. Coffee grounds overflowing. 5. A scab below the nose.

According to the experts, wisdom is the ability to recognize truth coupled with good judgment. Teeth in general represent decisions. Trouble with wisdom teeth specifically, indicates not giving oneself enough mental space to create a firm foundation.

Ha, speaking of foundations, coffee grounds overflowing could represent grounding and being a little backed up, not allowing the energy to flow out. In other words, an imbalance.

A scab is a healing wound. The nose of all things (and oh boy, have there been several references to noses lately!) represents self-recognition.

I’ve told you about my morning, we’ve interpreted the symbols, now what does this reveal about me?

Wisdom is emerging, accompanied by some pain. I have a decision to make, yet I am keeping myself too busy and not allowing enough quiet time to go inward and create a firm foundation to support it. I tend to hold onto things past their expiration dates, perhaps a little fearful of letting things go lest there be no more. Scarcity thinking. This creates a back up in my system, both in terms of prunes on the shopping list and energetic clogs.

A wound regarding self-recognition is healing.

And now I must digress for a moment and summon once again the topic of the dude at the Japanese tea ceremony who plucked a strawberry from his nose. I wrote about it because it was so weird and curiously provoking.

When I was a youngster, I was in love with strawberries. I’d save my coins until I had enough to buy some delectable scarlet berries of my own. J'adore manger des fraises, but I was too afraid to ever eat them, because if I ate them, there wouldn’t be any left. So the strawberries would sit in their little green basket on the shelf in the refrigerator until they were covered in moldy fur, bruised and squishy, and had to be thrown out. Need I say more?

Strawberries have always reminded me of how I hold on to things but don’t allow myself the experience of enjoying them. It’s a sad trait, a waste really.

Now that I understand that the nose represents self-recognition, having someone pull a strawberry out of one like a rabbit from a hat suddenly makes sense. First of all, it captured my attention and I’ve been ruminating.

Secondly, putting the waking dreams together, as I watched the guy pull a strawberry from his nose, I witnessed an old habit of hoarding being birthed through the nostril canal of self-recognition. Is this woo-woo enough for you? Are you following me so far? Okay, I’m laughing even if you aren’t.

Here’s what I’ve come up with so far: Wisdom breaking through, making a decision, a need for quiet mediation, letting things go with faith there will always be more, and a healing wound. Really, all that from a sketchy morning?

Taking the time to examine the symbols in my environment created a release. When Groom showed up at the Market, I decided to walk around and see the new vendors who finally had an opportunity to sell at Market since most of the regulars were at the Oregon Country Fair.

I made it but a few steps from my booth when a man came straight up to me and began talking as though we had been in the middle of a conversation. His eye contact was direct and intense, his style of speech so deliberate, that I had to tell him I was a vendor down the row in case he thought he was spilling his guts to somebody else.

He told me he knew perfectly well who I was and proceeded to tell me his “story.” As he spun his tale, I was in awe and had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. Why? Because he was using my words to describe his situation. I must have been having a sort of out-of-body experience because I was me watching him act just like me. I peered into the looking glass.

His stuff was my stuff. His mystery and drama had been mine earlier in the day. It was the very thing I had let go in the wisdom teeth, coffee ground, scabby nose scenario. Was I being punked?
Out of the hundreds of people at Market, how did this guy zero in on me and mirror back what I had been just a few hours earlier? What I told him in response shocked him. I described his pain and all that went with it and how he was dreaming his world. He was stunned, how did I know?

I revealed that I had let all of that go by mid-morning and had stepped into a new place. He told me he wanted to talk to me because I looked so peaceful. He could not believe I had been living in anger as recently as a week ago.

As we stood there reflecting each other, he showed me why I had been so angry. I had always thought my anger was rooted in the details, family mierde and whatsuch, but turns out, not exactly the case.

He was attributing his feelings of frustration and imbalance to somebody else’s behavior. In that instant, I saw how I felt like a victim of everybody else’s whims and moods, trying hard to please, appease or assuage so that I could be okay. But since that never worked, I was angry.

The essence of my struggle appeared. I had sought myself “out there.” If only they would do such and such, then I could feel alright. If only they would smile at me, like me, validate me, approve of me…” Oh good Lord, how sickening. Here’s a fitting quote by Thaddeus Golas, “Egotism is proving you are worthwhile after you have sunk into hating yourself.” Damn and ouch!

No wonder I was angry so often. At the first signs of anybody else’s bad mood or disapproval, I dissolved into anger, wondering what I did to cause it and trying in vain to uncause it.

Self-recognition. Not ego, not out there, but in here. I’ve heard that the “Kingdom of God is within,” and all the other sayings relating to going within, but I never really understood it. Mentally, I got the concept, but like the strawberries, I never experienced it. My Self may be a little enshrined in fuzzy mold, be squishy in parts and bruised, but I’m not going to throw It out.

The wound is healing.

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY to me! Officially I’m 102, but I don’t feel a day over 80. I celebrated with friends throughout the weekend (thanks for all the loot) and had a slice of jalepeno cake frosted with an habenaro-chocolate ganache.

It would be prudent of me to avoid mentioning the double-dipped ice cream invitations or the delicious organic blueberry and raspberry dessert with homemade whip cream that was delivered with affection at Market.

Crikey, now that I’m propped here at the computer, I didn’t realize how much I’ve been noshing lately. Which also conjures the delicious memory of the dark chocolate candy bar with lime zest and black pepper that Kimmm brought back from Harvey Nichols in jolly ol’ England. Delish.

Uh-oh, this seems to be digressing into confessions of a sugar junkie. Dang! No wonder the photo taken of me Sunday at the Aprovecho Stove Party makes me look pregnant. Supposedly the camera adds 10 pounds, but me thinks I’ve just done that to myself.

I’ve had a curious week post-Seminar. While in seclusion, having my thoughts reprogrammed and my brain washed (no, I did not join a cult, hmmm, at least I don’t think I did. I simply signed over my house and life savings…) part of the process was agreeing to “the rules.”

One rule was to refrain from telling stories, which translated into meeting 30 strangers without asking or divulging any details beyond our names such as marital status, job title, where we lived, if we had children or not, and especially no victim stories.

It was quite entertaining to participate in this social experiment. At first, what to say? Sputtering and stammering replaced the fact-finding dance that usually occurs early on in the acquaintance phase.

Not knowing whether someone was a doctor, lawyer, merchant or Indian chief executive officer provided a more level playground. Beyond fancy or scruffy shoes, hair flowers or belt buckle bling, we had only the present moment to draw our conclusions, formulate our first impressions and be with each other’s energy.

Oh yes, it was quite uncomfortable at first. But one of the seminar’s mottos is “Something do different,” or “Different something do,” or even more shocking, “Do something different.” So we sat with our discomfort and observed how often we were tempted to fall into story.

Back in January, I wrote about God’s Minion reminding me that while I might have slowed down my storytelling and complaining in general, I had not yet stopped telling the stories to myself.

“When you stop the drama in your head, then you’re home free,” she wisely counseled.

Intending to “something different do,” I practiced interacting with this group and made a firm decision not to tell any stories. The only one I got busted for was mentioning I had recently encountered a woman sporting a soul patch. My learning partner thought that might qualify as a “story,” but later we found out that particular observation did not qualify because I wasn’t turning myself into a victim over it (although, I easily could have done).

So I was feeling self-satisfied that I had the “no story” protocol down tight. Then, as mentioned last week, I bumped up against my own anger and boy did I want to discuss it with Groom! However, because I had made an agreement, I could not. Part of the learning process had me stewing in my own juices without jumping back into an old pattern of airing my grievances.

For a set period of time, I was not allowed to fall into explanation, share my viewpoint, or indulge my tendency to party with my pity. I could, however, express my thoughts in a journal. Phew! My pen was on fire.

This brand new way of owning my feelings instead of using the auto-escape valve by letting off steam to my partner (to him, not at him) revealed just how much I thrust off my emotions via turning myself into a victim. I needed him to validate my position.

As I sat scribbling in stream of consciousness writing, I wondered why I needed an outside voice to confirm that what I was feeling was legitimate. Like right now, I want to tell you how bad my cramps are, that I’m hot with chills, that I have the shakes accompanied by nausea, but what’s the point?

If I want to be home free, I’ve got to stop the drama in my head. Which as God’s Minion told me this morning, “That’s the work!”

By not telling Groom my discomfort and forgooing the expectation he’d do something about it, I had to figure a way to climb up the emotional ladder on my own. I spent the entire night telling myself how right I was, but even that old trick didn’t make me feel one jibbety-dot better.

That’s what garnered my attention. If hours of whining to myself in the dark did not yield a scant bit of improvement, what would? Letting it go, I discovered.

I already mentioned that when I aligned my head, heart and body, the anger was free to go. But the week following has been filled with volumes of silence. If I was going to stay in process, using the new tools I paid good money for, then I had to continue the agreement of no story telling.

What I discovered was without it, I don’t have much to say. The shocking realization of how much my inner and outer dialogue revolves around being offended, affronted and victimized in some way, large or small, has apparently left me eating lots of dessert.

When I mentioned this to God’s Minion, she asked a provocative question, “What are you going to replace it with?” I hope she meant the whinging, not the sugar.

Uh-oh, a quiz. My mouth opened and closed like a fish. Here I was, pleased to have outed my inner storyteller and she’s already prodding me forward.

As I write this, I notice myself taking a positive encounter (God’s Minion asking me what my next step is) and sprinkling it with my secret seven herbs and victimy spices for a more palatable and familiar flavor.

Okay, I’m going to say it again, but this time, please say the next sentence in the most childish, whiney tone you can muster. “Here I was, pleased to have outed my inner storyteller and she’s already prodding me forward.” Did you hear it? Wow, I sure did. Waa, here I was, content to rest on my laurels and my friend in a loving and supportive way, asked a question to keep me moving forward instead of getting stuck. Waa.

My God, I am good. I can turn myself into a victim with very little to work with.

What is my next step? As luck would have it, an answer immediately appeared in a book I’m currently reading, Spiritual Growth by Sanaya Roman:

“Love all your thoughts, even those that are limited or fearful. Think of them as small children needing your love and reassurance. If you catch a negative thought, don’t make yourself wrong for having it. Love all your negative thoughts and they will have far less power over you. If you are imagining things you want to stop thinking about, love yourself for thinking them and it will be easier to stop. Put a positive thought along side your negative thought; one positive thought can cancel out hundreds of negative ones.”

I am letting go of victimy storytelling and creating a new song for myself today. And speaking of today, it is 7/8/9. At 12:34 and 56 seconds it is 12:34:56 7/8/9. Wow, what a way to celebrate alignment and inner-Independence Day!

Internal Bureaucracy

The scariest person I’ll ever meet is me. After having spent five long days in a row at a workshop designed to introduce each participant to themselves, it is a new experience to be present with myself instead of keeping busy to avoid.

The workshop days were looooong, twelve to fourteen hours in duration and I slept an average of three hours a night during this entire week. But as I kept at it, doing the work and letting go of my mask, I became unguarded. Surprise - I wasn’t nearly as tired as I had anticipated.

Guess what? Living in the moment frees up a lot more time! Dragging the past is exhausting, future-tripping leaks my life force faster than a flat tire leaks air, and hiding from myself requires redonkalous amounts of energy.

I had to strip naked. No, I did not show up to the workshop in the nude, but I did become transparent and allow everyone to see me as I am. In my hiding, I was so worried that people would see me as angry, which was an unacceptable image, that I worked overhard to apply the makeup and paste the smile.

The first feedback I received was that I seemed angry, which made me angry.

1) I feared people would reject me if they knew I was angry. 2) I feared people would reject me if I didn’t dress up in all my baubles and bling. 3) I feared people would reject me if I spoke out loud what I was actually thinking, and at times, about them.

I have no idea how it was done, but the workshop pushed me until I was standing there, in complete ownership of my anger. My head, my face, my body language and my energy all lined up in anger. I glared at thirty people, my waxy smile melting with the heat.

I sat down, my arms crossed in violent self-defense. I had left angry from the workshop the night before, stayed angry all night, woke up angry, and showed up angry. I wasn’t about to let go of it now.

It was so weird. Within moments of lining up and claiming my anger on purpose, it tip-toed quietly away and it took a bit for me to notice I was peaceful and calm. During the break, outside the room, people immediately came up to me and said utterly surprising things, words I never in a million years expected to hear.

“Oh my God, you are so beautiful in your anger.”

“I am so drawn to you.”

“Now I want to know who you are.”

“You are very attractive to me.”

Say what??? My red flushed cheeks were uncovered. My hair was uncombed, my clothes were plain, I was barefoot and I had glared. Instead of the participants glaring back, challenging my anger with their own or excluding me on account of my bad attitude, they welcomed me with open arms. Words were bandied about like passion, exuberance and aliveness. Were these people freakin’ nuts?

After my little showdown, the room was a new place. After my little showdown, my heart was a new place. I was open, playful, animated. My implacable wall was gone. I thought I was working hard to keep others out, but all this time I have been afraid to let me in.

A humorous definition of bureaucracy is “more than one person involved.” Since I’ve had all these conflicting thoughts and beliefs, I now call that chaos internal bureaucracy when more than one belief is involved.

One of them just got busted. I thought there was a separate tank of love for God, a separate compartment of love for others and a last-to-be-filled container of love for oneself. But I discovered, like holding a flashlight, when in the flow of love, it matters not whether you turn the beam upward, inward or outward, it’s all from the same source.

There is a song called This Is My Now by Jordin Sparks that has come to mean a great deal to me. Here is a lyric preview and the first phrase that hits home is
Living in a shell, hiding from myself…

This is my now, and I am breathing in the moment.
Because I look around
I can’t believe the love I see.
My fears behind me, gone are the shadows and doubts.
That was then, this is my now.

By the end of the seminar, I created a life-long contract. One of the next steps I committed to was telling it to others. I’d like to share my contract with you.

I am
Aligned
Right here
Right now.

Frida Underground

Wow, with a week containing Solstice, the first day of summer, Father’s Day and a new moon, I am happy to report only one nostril/food-related incident. ‘Twas Saturday last at the illustrious Market and I was in chemical need of caffeine, so I made the journey across the two lane road to the food court. Surveying my options, I noticed a sign advertising a blended iced coffee drink.

Arms outstretched like a robot, I marched toward my favorite vegetable: coffee beans. I was about to order their version of a chilled mocha java when the “barista” jammed a bored index finger into his left nostril up to the second knuckle.

This behavior had its own chilling effect. I stopped in my tracks and stared. He looked at me looking at him, grinned with pride, pulled the strawberry-digger out, appraised his treasure and then proceeded to insert it back into his other nostril.

Suddenly I didn’t want a coffee so bad.

For those of you paying attention to my segues, transitions and content, I have been on an unfortunate wavelength for the past two weeks that has me engaged with nostrils and things either going in (fingers and corks) or coming out (strawberries and boogers). This condition is likely caused my time spent with an active 15-year old relative who is delighted and proud of every one of his body functions.

Logically, since I am grossed out by them and offer plenty of resistance, the Universe is having a good time at my expense, sending more juvenile antics for me to observe. Or perhaps there is another explanation. I am in vibrational alignment with pesky, hormonal teenage energy.

There is plenty of evidence to support this theory. I am often cranky. I cry at commercials and dance shows. I want my way. I am moody, swinging from this branch of emotion to that branch in record time. I am flexible as long as I don’t have to change. I need others to change so that I can feel better. I think everyone’s stupid. I am amazed at how smart and talented everybody else is.

Which is why Groom and I are going underground for the next five days. Okay, well, not exactly underground, just turning off our cell phones, shutting down the computer and attending a five-day, 12-hour a day personal growth seminar. It’s part deux of the one we participated in a couple of months ago.

We had to fill out a fairly extensive questionnaire, answering what we’d like to learn while underground, locked in a room, or whatever they do to help us get at our personal itch. I wrote that I wanted to – oh, did you think I was going to tell you? I wrote that I wanted to stop seeing boys pick their noses.

Not really. I mean I do, but I think the issue is that I’m stuck in a particular chapter of my story and I’m getting bored with it. Here’s an example of somebody else’s behavior to describe my own, which is what the behavior is about. Confusing? Read on.

I know a Malaprop man (when complimenting my decorating style he said, “I like your decorum”) who loves to insert himself into other people’s home improvement projects. He starts all kinds of things, which the person may or may not have requested, and then becomes distracted before he completes them , leaving the project mid-mess only to start another one.

At one point, when he was complaining to me how many disorganized, unfinished projects he had going, I asked why.

He looked at me like I was an idiot and stated, “So I don’t have to deal with my own stuff.”

Oh.

I’m much more like Malaprop Man than I care to admit. Until recently, I believed I was in service, offering help to people in crisis, even though they may or may not have requested it. I thought I could take away their pain. As I hinted last week, people no likey.

This week, I am coming to understand that as I try to squelch their pain, I am unwittingly (and ineffectively) trying to take away their lessons. God and the Universe no likey.

It has also been pointed out to me that I am motivated to take away their pain because I am unaccepting of people as they are. I want to change them. I want them to change so that I can feel better. I am interested in other people’s home improvement projects so that I don’t have to deal with my own stuff. Uh-oh, now, me no likey.

Furthermore, I was guided to understand that I have to discover in myself those feelings and reactions I’m hoping to receive from others, such as approval, appreciation, validation and love.

I am all bass-ackwards. I somehow believed that I would find self-love by getting others to show it to me first as an exchange for siphoning their pain. Sucker.

God’s Minion gave me some excellent feedback, which deserves its place here: Resistance. I have been thinking of that word so much in recent years and I try to immediately transform it into the word fluidity...fluidity.... fluidity. It even rolls more easily off the tongue.

Resistance is the condition that keeps us from being our best self and from seeing the best in others. In the book Lazy Man's Guide To Enlightenment the author says: “What is it that you think needs to be loved?”

Perhaps even, dare I say it, the cutting of a tree (or the picking of a nose)? He says once we can love everything then we are in heaven and he does mean EVERYTHING. Our human condition dictates that we have judgments about as much as we possibly can, as much as we can cram into a day and even keep ourselves awake with at night. The universe is neutral. How comforting, the universe is neutral. No judgment, just response to the frequency being emitted. EMIT LOVE. Wow.

Yes, wow. As I type these last words, a car passed by honking and the driver leaned out the window and yelled, “Yeah, you’re number one, too!”

Pain-snatchers

I’m a time traveler at heart. The first place I’d go visit is Paris, 1889. La Dame de fer, or the Iron Lady as the Eiffel Tower was nicknamed, stands brand spanking new, serving as the entrance to the Exposition Universelle. I’d meander down the Champs de Mars, the Trocadero, and the Quai d’Orsay on the left bank of the Seine.

I’d be smacked with anti-P.C. culture shock strolling by the “Negro Village,” a major attraction with hundreds of indigenous people on display. I’d probably try to sneak photos of Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley in the Wild West Show with my digital camera or catch a glimpse of French composer Claude Debussy at the first inspiring moment he heard gamelan music from Java.

But the first person I’d want to find is Vincent van Gogh. Now he’s someone I’d want to sit down with at a sidewalk café to share a snootful of grande woodworm Absinthe. If la fee verte (the authentic green fairy, not the synthetic one), were to be released, I’d like to ask him what really happened with his ear. However, the answer might be disappointing and ruin the mystery.

I’d like to tell him not to kill himself, that he will go on to become one of the most beloved artists of all times. Then again, what would happen if he listened to me and history didn’t turn out that way at all? He’d still be steeped in alcohol, turpentine and poverty, but angry with me.


I romanticize the past, caught up in the illusion that people were kinder, more genteel, but truthfully, it’s the costumes, the fashion of the day that thrill me. What I’d really want to do is go power shopping and get my hands on some authentic steam punk togs.

I understand that human drama is human drama, but if that’s true no matter where you go, then let’s talk setting. A divorce, an illness, or a difficult time paying bills is much more interesting in a French villa than, say, a trailer park.

Speaking of white trash rash, I had a weird day on Saturday. Groom asked what crevice in the earth opened up nearby and why all the escapee’s decided to come to Market? Anyone who knows me understands that I have a thing about hygiene. I tend to flush toilets with my toes, wash my hands before and after everything — well, you get the picture.

So it was with consternation (a sudden, alarming dread resulting in utter dismay), that I witnessed a hairy beast lumber into our booth and, while gawking at the jewelry, stick his claw (okay, hand) inside his pantaloons and scratch the becooties out of his behind, only to sniff his fingers afterward. I almost wretched.

This class act was followed by a ferret-faced gentleman proffering strawberries in a helium, high-pitched voice. “For you,” he said staring, his eyes set close together like a cartoon. When Groom politely took two, I was thinking back to last week’s question where a man pulled two strawberries from his nose, and decided to take my own advice.

The gnome started licking both hands from the base of his palm to the tips of his fingers. While I was silently bargaining with God for him not to touch anything, Groom calmly said, “Just so sweet, you can’t help yourself,” which appealed greatly to the strange little man with the helium voice.

I seem to resist everything while Groom has an ability to go with the flow. I heard a racket outside this morning and the first words out of my mouth were, “I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it.” Turns out I was right. As I sit down at the computer to drivel, one of my daymares is coming true. A large, glorious historical tree is being murdered next door.

Sure, one measly limb falls off during a violent storm and a rain gutter gets dented and the next thing you know, the chain saw massacre is unfolding. Men in hard hats and suspenders are milling around the property, testosterone and stupicles all atwitter, comparing whose tool is longer or has a bigger diameter.

A cacophony of dueling saws rattles the windows. Deafening, buzzing roars try to drown out the spirit of the wounded tree, but I can still hear it. I was just curled up on the bed in the fetal position, mourning the loss. And don’t even get me started on the willows….

I love trees. I adore them. Wandering through the forest, I feel as though I am in God’s cathedral. I read somewhere about one tree’s roots intertwining with a skeleton buried nearby, the mutual limbs entangled like lovers. That’s exactly how I’d like my remains to rest in peace.

My mother called the other day and told me batches of beautiful trees were being taken out near where they live. I was bereft. I had a tanty, I keened.

My mother called the other day with news that one of my classmates had died. “Really, when?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

I asked the next obvious question. “How’d she die?”

“Don’t know that either,” said Mother.

“Well, how did you hear about it?”

“Hmmm, someone, although I can’t think of who it was, told me.”

I called my girlfriend, who I’ve known since junior high and began the conversation with, “Do you remember Jane Doe?”I didn’t have a chance to say another word before she exclaimed, “Jane Doe? That wench? She was the most vile, heinous, nasty person to me at school, oh she was evil, a horrible human being, why?”

“Um, well, I just heard she died.” Apparently this was not bad news.

“Really? How, when?” She wanted to make sure I was not kidding.

“Mom told me, but I don’t know anything past that. She doesn’t even remember where she heard it.”

My mother called the other day and said, “I can’t help but notice you had more of a reaction to the news the trees were killed rather than your classmate.”

“Yes, but the trees didn’t do anything to me or my friends.”

Maybe it was time for this neighboring tree to go, I don’t know. But as energy reflects energy, perhaps the tree and I are already intertwined. I am experiencing a death of my own. I am being recalled. I have always wanted to know my purpose, to have a passion that I could throw myself into, but instead, I am split in many ways, carrying around a mass of conflicting energy. This resistance does more harm than good and I’m weary of it.

It should be no surprise to me then, that I often encounter heavy resistance in others. In my bumbling attempt to discover a purpose, I have been attracted to the study of energy, healing and miracles. I’ve witnessed several spontaneous healings up close and personal and these experiences have left me desiring more. Eagerly, I have tried to share information on pain-release, but I am consistently met with protective anger.

Recently, I met a man with a very large bump on his arm. Since we were already discussing health and healing, I made a casual comment that Groom’s similar bump on his elbow went away after some energy work.

The man immediately covered the protruding lump with his other hand, as if it were a precious thing, and said quite sternly, “This isn’t going away, it’s mine.” And that sums up the human story. This pain is mine.

Oh, people will be quite patient with those that inflict it, calling them possessive nouns like my stalker, my persecutor, my whatever, but heaven help the one who tries to lessen it. People react strongly to pain-snatchers.

While resisting the resistance, Groom offered me a different story for the soundtrack outside our house. “What if this were a hundred years ago, Sweetie, can you picture the yells and verbal assaults of the dock workers? Can you picture their unwashed bodies, the hoots and hollers as the ship comes in and the barrels roll out? We’d be so excited, looking forward to the merchant’s shelves being restocked with all kinds of interesting things.”

I think about that. I’d have all kinds of patience and allowances for the romantic setting of the past, but wince at every sharp sound and vagary troll in my daily environs. I bet Mister van Gogh was smelly, unkempt and off putting. Sure, I want to buy him a drink now because I know of his brilliance, but what if I had been a neighbor? Would I have rolled my eyes and recoiled when I saw him stumbling down the street or clenched my fists in frustration when he fought with Gauguin — again?

Resistance is futile. Pain connects us. It is not my job to disconnect. Bad puppy!

Au revoir, beautiful tree.

Dear Frida

Questions are trickling into my mailbag and I’ve collected enough of them to introduce a new feature: an Ask Frida column. But it comes with a warning…I’m abdicating all responsibility for my answers. I shall not be held accountable for their tone, efficacy, or people’s behavior resulting from obeying my orders, er, advice.

I shall iterate, lest it slip your minds, that Frida is neither a licensed or trained professional in the medical, mental or culinary fields. However, a fashion police badge can be found in my over-sized bag, so beware.

Some of you might wonder why this Everyday Anthropologist, a self-proclaimed student of human behavior, is considering helping others suss it out.

For two elemental reasons: One, I’ve discovered that most of us are struggling with one area or another, and two, people keep asking.

Okay, I admit it - I’m socially awkward. On the other hand, as much as human behavior puzzles, it has also been said that I have an ability to laugh inappropriately at problems while simultaneously offering strange comfort.

Okay, ready for this week’s experimental grab bag?

Dear Frida,
While eating dinner at a friend’s house the host was holding court, and us hostage, with stories from his work. Suddenly I noticed he had the biggest nostrils I’d ever seen in my life. I’m talking sarcastically large, like he could fit a wine cork in each one. Excited, I got up from the table and opened random drawers, looking for a ruler. When I finally found one, I began measuring his enormous nose holes. Was that rude, or should I have waited until he was finished talking?
Curious

Dear Curious,
I suggest you stick a cork in it!

Dear Frida,
My dog recently chomped down on my little finger. In the subsequent days that have passed, my pinky is grotesquely swollen, I can’t bend it, it looks like little worms are crawling out of it, my entire arm is red and it hurts worse than when I donated a kidney or had two grapefruit-sized tumors removed from my belly. Should I go to the doctor’s or wait until the infection has tunneled its way to the bone, then have emergency surgery with the possibility of amputation, spend a few days in the hospital, and have a PIC line implanted in my other arm all the way to my heart for broad-spectrum antibiotics?
Sign me,
Actually Insured in America

Dear Actually Insured in America,
Well, that depends entirely upon your schedule. Is there anything impending that you would like to avoid, say, a family wedding? If you ignore the wound long enough, you can finesse it to get out of In-law patrol. Or, if it’s not schedule-dependant, consider if you’ll actually need your finger, hand, or arm for anything in the future. If you don’t anticipate using them, or if the pain isn’t driving you, by all means, save the gas and time getting to the doctor and instead, savor away your afternoon eating chocolate and watching soaps.

Dear Frida,
I tend to vacillate in the weight department and I’m tired of cinching up my dresses or letting them out depending on the fat factor. Any suggestions?
Feeling Frumpy

Dear Feeling Frumpy,
Here’s a simple solution. Make an appointment at your local piercing store and have them install permanent corset hooks into your back and then you can save gobs of time by threading colorful ribbons through the metal, allowing you to cinch up your fat rather than all your pretty fabrics.

Dear Frida,
Last week I bumped into an acquaintance I hadn’t seen for about 12 months. The last time I spoke with him, he was a bi-ped, but now he’s mysteriously transformed into a double amputee. Should I have whistled gaily while avoiding eye contact and asked, “Hey, how’s it going, what’s new?” Or jump right in and casually point to the two shiny nubbins with jagged scars and the wheelchair and say, “What’s with the new ride?”
Call me Stumped

Dear Stumped,
As one who has spent a wee bit of time in a wheelchair myself, most folks try to dance around the subject, so the next time you see him, ask if he got a two-for-one deal.

Dear Frida,
On Mother’s Day, I took mine for a stroll and we passed a Japanese tea ceremony in progress. Although it was occurring in public, we stood to the side so as not to interrupt. A Japanese woman in kimono knelt on the ground, whipping a bowl of tea into a frenzy. Although I wanted to pay close attention to her every movement, a gentleman in the place of honor was digging for gold in his nasal cavity. The first time he pulled a large strawberry from his nose, I shook my head to relieve the cobwebs, for I could not believe what I was seeing, but the second time he went mining and pulled yet another strawberry from his proboscis I looked at my mother in horror only to see the exact same expression on her face. Since I know you’ve been to Japan recently and attended a tea ceremony, would you explain what that part meant?
Culturally Unprepared

Dear Culturally Unprepared,
The frothy ceremonial green tea can taste quite bitter and attractive sweets are a part of the ritual to soothe the tongue. However, I would avoid eating anything that gentleman might offer.

Well, that’s it for this week’s mailbag. If any of you have more questions, please email them directly to Frida.Chiquita.Kahlo@gmail.com . If they are quirky or awkward enough, then I might just use them. I do my best work when I’m cranky or PMSing, so pretty much anytime.

Go ahead, take my advice… I’m not using it anyway.

Spookaloo

This installment of the weekly serial about Frida’s adventures takes place in Spokane, Washington. Each little segment may not be specifically related, as in theme and focus, but they are tangentially connected by what we saw, observed and experienced in the “Lilac City.”

For instance, did you know that the word “lilac” is an Arabian word for blue? This piece of trivia won’t particularly relate to anything else here today, but it is something we learned while visiting this Pacific Inland city.

Which smoothly leads us to back to the first paragraph. A moment ago, while trying to spell tangentially, I made an error and typed in “tangenital.” Whoops! This mistake reminds me of a conversation I had on the phone this week. Somebody I know received a reminder email, “genitally prodding” her for something, which has nothing to do with anything other than I find that typo humorous and I heard about it while in Spokane.

If you can’t tell, I’ve received some constructive feedback on my writing segues and thematic material. One genital reader is offering to help guide me to better and clearer transitions, so I am practicing by telling you what I’m going to write about, then writing about it, and then telling you what I wrote.

So now I’m going to introduce you to Spokane. Kimmm’s grandmother referred to this Eastern Washington burg as Spookaloo, which I think is a fine nickname and henceforth perhaps I shall call it that, too.

My first introduction to Spookaloo occurred last century, in the year nineteen hundred and seventy-four. My father and I took a road trip in our 1967 Chevy Impala and stopped for the World’s Fair. Remember the big whooptie U.S. fair of the Bi-centennial era? It is the scene of a now funny, then traumatic experience with my paternal figure called The Bumper Car Saga.

My 10-year old self had never ridden a Ferris wheel so big. It was the world’s tallest at the time, or maybe it just felt that way, and the people down below looked like ants. Stop, you say. What does a Ferris wheel have to do with bumper cars? Yes, I can see how this might bewilder. Let me explain.

In the larger context of the World’s Fair, I was about to make a long-term memory (although I didn’t know it at the time). It began with the Ferris wheel getting stuck for a brief eternity. I was riding alone and my open-air bench seat was just cresting the top when the whole thing came to a sudden stop. I’m making the comparison that it was a little frightening to be caught up there while waiting for it to be fixed, but nothing compared to the trauma of The Bumper Car Saga.

In my short history, I had always ridden amusement park rides that were wholly controlled by nefarious looking carnies. It was within this framework that I hesitantly took my dad’s suggestion and got in line for the bumper cars. When it was finally my turn, I had to let go of my dad’s hand and allow the thrill-ride engineer, with his skinny body, meth breath and bad teeth, lead me to a car and lower the security bar.

I waited for him to start the ride, but nothing happened. Abruptly, without warning, the other kids started crashing into me. It was jarring and confusing. My bumper car would not move with the exception of being smashed into. Within seconds, I was the favorite target and like a magnet, all the other cars were aiming straight for me. My body was knocked side to side and I looked up for help. What I saw was worse than getting hit.

Floundering, I had drawn a crowd outside the arena as well. The adults waiting for the ride to end were laughing and pointing at me. But that was not the worst of it. My father was in the lead. He was pointing and laughing at me. I died a couple of deaths. One from being targeted and crashed into over and over again for the entire time and the other from being humiliated in front of many people including the man who was supposed to have my back.

I had no clue that the bumper car came equipped with a foot pedal to power it myself. I was waiting for an outside source to make my car vroom and instead, I was stalled in the middle of a hostile crowd. I was temporarily helpless and I burned with the shame of it.

When that circle of hell ended, I climbed out of the stupid car with as much dignity as I could muster and it was the first time I was more angry with my father than afraid. I did not look at him.

I could not look at him.

He tried to take my hand, but I would not allow it. The joy of the World’s fair was gone and replaced with the knowledge that kids and adults alike could be cruel. The color and fun drained away and I even ignored my father’s offer of an ice cream cone. Epic.

Because I was hundred’s of miles away from home, I eventually had to talk to him and he explained that the exact thing had happened to him as a child and that now, as a grown up, he could understand why the adults had been laughing. That didn’t make me feel any better. Nor did the phone conversation with my mother later that evening when she broke the news that my kitty, Mr. Bojangles, had disappeared.

I cried and felt very alone and let down. That was my introduction to Spokane.

I agree. It was very brave of me to return to the scene of the crime. While at the Waterfront Park, I peeked at the bumper cars and eerily enough, they were cordoned off with yellow caution tape. The arena was empty, but the echoes of laughter still haunt the place.

Shaking off the past, we toodled around downtown, gawked at Spokane Falls and on a whim decided to ride the gondola. We attended the Museum of Arts and Culture and caught a glimpse of the Wicked Witch of the West’s hat just in time for the 70th Anniversary of the Wizard of Oz.

After playing tourista, we visited extended family who live on the lake and we lazily enjoyed coffee and conversation on the dock. A pair of loons nodded as they swam by and then Mr. and Mrs. Duck greeted us. The fish were jumping, an eagle swooped nearby, and a marmot ran for cover.

The extended family includes a hormonal 13-year old boy. Nana says that his “whores are moaning.” The kid is quite active, funny and unpredictable. After the first day, he asked if he could go to Italy with us. We were impressed because that took goolies.

He made up a word for boys who think with their dangly bits instead of their brains and calls them “stupicles.” Nana said his “stupicles” were definitely descending. It is one of those multiple parts of speech words, used frequently in this household to describe both the person and their actions. I will now provide you with an example.

As we walked the short distance from the lake to the house, two young boys buzzed us on quads. I was about to comment on the potential danger when Nana gestured discreetly that one of them had already crashed in an earlier accident resulting in permanent brain damage as well as losing half his face. I’m new to this vocabulary term, but I think the parents were demonstrating stupicle behavior.

Remember, I’m still in thirteen year-old world. He walked around with his iPod, reading us random stupicle jokes. Here are two of them: “Your mama is so stupicle, she brought a red magic marker to the hospital because they needed to draw blood,” or “Your papa is so stupicle, he sold his car for gas money.”

I had a much longer list of things to mention about our week in Spokane, but it looks as though they might need to be put on hold for another time. To follow-up, as you’ve probably already deduced, we did not hit the mega jackpot lottery in last week’s drawing, but someone else, appropriately from Winner, South Dakota, won in our stead. Congratulations!

I told you I would write about Spokane, I wrote about Spokane and now I’m telling you that I wrote about Spokane.