Diminishing Returns

I feel compelled to report that my memories and orgasms grow weaker with repetition.

My most precious memories lose detail and strength every time I review them. Soon they become as blurry and featureless as a photocopy of a photocopy, of a photocopy, down to the tenth generation. Every time there is less emotion, less strength, less everything. Until I put the memory away on a shelf and hope that it regains some strength with rest.

The same thing happens to me with orgasms, whether solo or duo. Each succeeding time, it is harder to achieve and less powerful, until it won't come at all and i give up. Experience tells me that my orgasmic capacity does regenerate with time, thank heavens, but I'm not a fan of this law of diminishing returns.

My First Demonstration

The first time I marched in a demonstration, the clamor of rain hitting umbrellas drowned out the speakers.

The ecumenibus had brought gay Lutherans, Jews, Catholics, and Episcopalians to Sacramento to march for legislation to protect folks from homophobic employers. I had come with a seasoned campaigner and had followed his advice to bring an extra set of clothes in a plastic bag.

I bought a button commemorating the march, which would grow into a collection, and marched proudly with my group, Lutherans Concerned for Gay and Lesbian Understanding. At the end of the march, we stood in a downpour to hear encouraging words from the leaders of the effort and our political allies. But the rain thundering down on our umbrellas made their words unintelligible.

Back on the bus, in dry clothes, I felt so proud to be part of a savvy group that was working for such a worthy goal. I had tried on the role of activist, and it fit.

My Book is Published!

A few days after I approved the final text, my publishing consultant from Xlibris called to let me know that my book was live on Amazon.com. And there it was! The paperback edition of Tales of a Seeker: A Spiritual Anthology, by Dana Vinicoff, is now available for your purchase at the low, low price of $15.99!

The listings for the book are not complete; only the paperback edition is available now. A link for the Kindle edition should appear in due course, along with a description of the contents of the book. Complete listings in various online purveyors could take as long as two months, but I'm ecstatic already.

Wow!

The Stitches are Out!

Of my kitty's heel, and the vet said I did an excellent job of nursing her. (Imagine me patting myself on the back.)

On the other hand, there was a tiny spot where the skin was not altogether closed, so I need to keep her indoors and in the cone for a few more days.

You can't win them all.

Post-Election Music

I listened to music on the car radio this morning after I had heard enough news about the election: Clinton's concession speech, Obama's reminder that all Americans are on the same team, and how, as outgoing President Bush did his best to pass the baton for a successful transfer of power to Obama's team, so will his White House do its best for the team of the incoming president elect, and, hopefully, through them, for this 240-year-old republic. I hope that this ship of state is so vast that it will not be sunk by a single election.

Anyway, music has charms to soothe the troubled. As yesterday's election stress grew to a peak, I saw an animated movie and tapped my feet along with the bouncy music. That was soothing and comforting, and kept me in a hopeful frame of mind, despite the existential terror I felt at the prospect of a Trump administration, until the election results could no longer be denied.

And this morning, when the music followed Obama's words of peace and hope, I felt a knot begin to loosen in my chest. I promised myself to listen to a Brahms symphony or two when I get home. I hoped the music would further loosen the knot and remind me that art lives on, and that defeat and death are not the end of all that is good.

I hoped the music would help me open my eyes to every possible sign of hope in the coming days. That it would remind me that half of my fellow Americans are not evil sheep who yearn for a home-grown Third Reich. That I could hope that not everyone who voted for Trump is as profoundly bigoted, misogynistic, anti-semitic, homophobic, and devoid of integrity, honesty, or character as he clearly is. Not to mention vengeful. If he believes in anything other than his own excellence, it's in taking revenge on anyone who slights him. And I really don't want to live in a country where retribution is the chief concern of government.

But getting back to music, it's mathematical and emotional, and simple and true. It doesn't lie; it simply is what it is. And its essence is to speak to each listener about what she is open to hearing. And to nudge us into opening and hearing a little more as it goes on, and with each repetition.

The sound waves help organize our brainwaves and heartbeats, and all the rhythms in our bodies. And our cells are happy to be yoked in harmony to each other; they rush to their duties with renewed strength, vigor, and eagerness to share in a greater whole.

Election Stress

A medical practitioner of mine told me a few weeks ago that all her patients were complaining of election stress.

And today I heard a piece on NPR about it. One producer got saliva samples from people who were listening to one of the presidential debates, and found significantly elevated levels of cortisol, the stress hormone. Interestingly, the levels were higher in Republicans than Democrats.

I think the difference is because the Republican candidate stirs up fear, anger, and hatred, which are more stressful than positive emotions of hope and determination.

At any rate, I've lost some weight because the stress has hurt my appetite and digestion. The weight loss is a good thing; the indigestion is not.

I can't wait until this endless election is over and we start putting our country back together.

Furry Progress

So, Misty soon learned how to chew on her stitches despite the Elizabethan collar, so I had to go back to the vet and get her a hard plastic cone of shame. She's been pretty mellow about it; I think the fact that it's transparent makes it less threatening to her.

The wound is still holding together, and she's still pounding on the kitty door every so often to see if it's unlocked now. And she's started climbing onto furniture that she's never climbed on before, including the family Webster's unabridged dictionary that is older than I am. It's an antique, not a kitty perch!

And she's been making a lot more noise than was her custom, but I'm hoping that will fade away when she resumes being able to go outdoors any time she likes.

She should be getting rid of the stitches in three days, and none too soon.

Misty's Misstep

The other day I heard cat shrieks from the backyard, and caught a glimpse of motion going over the back fence into the yard next door. I came out to look for Misty using the tracker tile on her collar, but she was out of range.

I was a bit worried, but found her home when I returned at the end of the day. She seemed herself, but did vocalize (a rarity) on being moved out of my lap. Later on, her dear friends the downstairs tenants reported that she seemed injured. They showed me where a piece of skin seemed to have been removed from her heel, and I made her a vet appointment for first thing the next morning.

The vet said it didn't appear to be a bite, but was a deep tearing of her skin, exposing tendon and muscle, and was right over a joint that could not be immobilized. The injury would be hard to heal. She must have tangled with something sharp in the backyard.

We got her cleaned out and stitched up, and pumped full of antibiotics and NSAIDs; and she came home in her least favorite accessory - the Elizabethan collar. It is supposed to keep her from chewing on the wound, which would contaminate it and pull out the stitches.

She had another collar a month or so ago, when she was spayed, and managed to work her way out of it twice. I gave up on it after two days, and she healed just fine. Now, though, I really need to keep the collar on for at least 10 days, and that's not going to be easy. She just kicks at it with all her strength until it gives up and slides off.

I'm also supposed to keep her indoors, and she doesn't like that a bit. She keeps going to the kitty door and pounding on it with her paws.

And I'm also supposed to keep her confined to a small room as much as possible, to keep her from running or jumping around and tearing out the stitches that way. So I've put her food, drink, and litter box into the bathroom. She doesn't like that much either, and sits in front of the door yowling.

So I'm sitting here in a pair of earplugs. Although she thinks I'm torturing her, I'm just trying to follow doctor's orders and get her healed up.

It's going to be a long two weeks.

The J Snake

The J church streetcar runs about a block from my home, so I often ride it when going somewhere that is not car-friendly.

The first time I rode it, I was amazed when the tracks left Church Street and edged into Dolores Park. There was grass on the left of the tracks and a planted hillside on the right. Suddenly I was at Disneyland, aboard an amusement park ride. We had left the paved street behind. Anything could happen.

I eventually realized that the tracks were taking a detour around a hill that was too steep for the train. The train needed to go around the side of the hill, via a winding pair of curves, to avoid sliding backwards. So much for the Disneyland magic.

Just the other day, though, some of the magic returned. The streetcar is articulated; it has a joint in the middle that allows the parts to move separately from side to side and up and down. I was sitting in the back of the car, and was watching the front half as it turned this way and that, and pointed uphill before the back half reached the same slope. Suddenly I was riding a huge serpent, like the sand worms of Dune, as I watched the head sway back and forth, independently of the body where I was. It was trippy.

BTW, the piece I performed for Lez Writes 2016

I seem to have a little problem with authority.

We kids who lived in the Berkeley hills rode the same number 7 bus to junior high school each weekday morning. We made the bus our own; the driver, not so much. For no reason we could see, he usually parked the bus on University Avenue and stepped outside of it for a minute or two. That did not sit well with me. I studied the door controls, and one day after he left the bus, I closed the door behind him.

He yelled at me to open it up again, and I did. I’ve occasionally wondered why I closed the door on him. I'm usually a goody two-shoes, color inside the lines, kind of gal. Only now, nearly 50 years later, do I have an idea. I've had abandonment issues most of my life. And I think that his leaving us alone in the bus frightened me a little bit and angered me a lot. Step away from us, will you? OK, we don't need you either, so there.

Fast forward through my college years, when I found out I was a lesbian. My very existence defied authority. After I came to San Francisco for law school, I joined associations of gay Lutherans and queer Jews. I found and read lesbian novels. In the back of my mind, I hoped for some lesbian action when I went out of town for a gay gathering. Nope.

The closest I came was at a conference in Minnesota for a gay Lutheran group. I happened to catch the eye of a nice lesbian doctor. Unfortunately, she insisted on remaining true to her absent lover, and my best efforts got me only some very nice necking, a canoe ride, and sunburn.

A few years later, I went to a women's retreat house for a weekend of instruction in meditation and massage. One woman used massage techniques on my inner thighs that would have caused me great embarrassment were I a man. Although straight, she seemed to enjoy exerting that power over another woman. When I happened to mention that I belonged to a gay synagogue, she perked up, and asked me to spend some time alone with her. I enjoyed giving her a demonstration of lesbian kissing and cuddling, but she drew the line there.

Then I went to the West Coast Women's Music and Cultural Festival. Hundreds of dykes camping in the woods, Holly Near, bare breasts. Women hooking up to the left of me, kissing and caressing to the right of me. Into the valley of dykes I marched. But me, my gaydar was so bad that I wound up hanging out with one of the ten straight women at the festival.

Each of the attendees had to contribute some hours of work as part of our payment for the festival. My job was titty patrol. A state highway ran through the campground, and women who planned to cross the road had to be reminded to put their shirts on, lest they risk being arrested.

Did you know that it's illegal in California for a woman to appear in public barebreasted? Men may take off their shirts any old time they want to, but a woman becomes a criminal if she does it. How is it, I wonder, that bare breasts are considered so threatening to the body politic as to constitute a crime?

Is it that poor, innocent, weak-willed men would lose control of themselves and rush like starving beasts to bury their faces in the unveiled and beckoning bounty? Would young children be traumatized by seeing breasts other than the ones they suckled at? Would all women become lesbians? I think it's that bare breasts defy male authority over women. If women control when to reveal our bodies, we might get the revolutionary notion that our bodies belong to us rather than to men. That simple idea would bring the patriarchy crashing in pieces to the ground.

LezWrites 2016

At least two friends urged me to submit a piece to this year's Best of LezWrites show. I had a faint recollection of having tried unsuccessfully last year, but couldn't find any electronic paper trail.

This year there was a theme, The Body Politic. Turns out I had written a piece about bare breasts and the law against 'indecent exposure' using that very phrase. The submissions needed to be between five and ten minutes long, and that single piece was not long enough. So I combined it with two other faintly humorous pieces, making a really good transition between the second and third pieces.

After my submission was accepted for the show, I ran it by my writing partners, who pointed out the weakness of the connection between the first and second pieces, and another theatrical mentor, who noted that it ended a bit abruptly. So I did a bit more stitching together of the pieces. In fact, every time I looked at it or read it aloud, I tinkered with a phrase here or a sentence there.

Anyway, the time finally came to perform it last Friday, and it went over pretty well.

Fun With Misty (Miss Tabby, Miss T)

I have a wonderful new kitty. She is a small, soft, brown tabby teenager. The neighbor who found her on the street described her as a lap cat. She likes my lap well enough, but even more enjoys lying on my shoulder.

She was a sweet, cuddly creature for the first few days, as she was learning her new territory - my flat and the backyard.

Then she felt enough at home to graduate to twilight terrorist, or night-time nut. She runs from one end of my home to the other, bouncing off walls. When I offered her a toy to play with, she'd chomp down on it and munch till it was dead. Even when she was in my lap, stroking her elicited claw-tipped paws as often as purrs.

Almost immediately, she took up hunting duties in the backyard, slaying a rat and stalking birds.

This morning, however, she had brought a bird inside and was tearing at its innards when I got up to visit the bathroom, as if to chide me for being late with her breakfast.

And after eating the cat food I provided, she brought inside a partly killed mouse - injured enough that it wasn't running around, but still breathing. After thanking her for the gift and praising her prowess, I should've drowned the mouse out of its misery. Instead, all I could think to do was get it the hell out of my home.

I left it on my back porch, near the eviscerated bird. Bedarned if she didn't follow it outside and resume playing with it. In the absence of furniture to bat it under, she found a space between two boards to knock it into. So my next joyful participation in her play will be to fish it out with some chopsticks and deposit it in the compost bin. Oh boy.

Protest Vote

Protest Vote

Sometimes we want to use our vote to oppose something else. The problem with protest voting is that we get what we vote for, not the opposite of what we voted against. For example, the proponents of the Leave campaign in the United Kingdom incited anger towards immigrants and fear of terrorism as reasons for leaving the European Union. But they didn’t explain what would happen to the country if it threw away a quarter-century of trade relationships and progress. The pound plummeted. It’s not enough to know what you’re voting against, if you have no idea what you’re voting for.

In our country, too many people support Donald Trump to express their hatred of President Obama and their fear of terrorism. They might be very surprised to learn what they’re voting for. There are only two ways to govern a really diverse country: politics and dictatorship. In politics, the major factions have to compromise, so each gets a bit of what they want and nobody gets everything they want. Otherwise, it takes a dictator to hold a diverse country together. In Iraq, we toppled a dictator without creating politics to take his place. We broke the country, and failed to put it back together – which led to death, destruction, and the rise of the Islamic State.

Since the election of President Obama, the Republicans abandoned any possibility of compromise. They openly vowed to make him a one-term president, even if it ruined the country. Their failure to compromise as fiscal deadlines loomed brought the country to the brink of defaulting on our obligations, which harmed our credit rating and our standing among nations. I don’t know why charges weren’t brought against them. Doing deliberate damage to the country in order to spite the sitting president sounds like treason to me.

Fortunately, there were enough Democrats in Congress during the first term to pull the US and the world back from the financial mess that the Bush administration had left us in. However, the Republican refusal to negotiate and compromise has resulted in total Congressional gridlock since then. Guns cannot be controlled even after horrific massacres of children, despite nearly total support from voters. Immigration reform is impossible. Nothing happens in Congress except futile votes to repeal the Affordable Care Act.

If politics can’t work, dictatorship is the only alternative for governing a diverse nation. That is why Trumpism is so popular. He’s not a politician, he has no use for compromise. He says that he’ll fix everything, and some voters believe him, because of his pathological self-confidence and vast experience with failed businesses. Anyone with the least sense of history is reminded of Germany in the 1930s. Trumpism is Fascism, and he is running not for president of a republic, but for dictator. Vote for him only if that’s what you want.

Despair and Delight

Yesterday a friend invited me to share her free tickets to see the musical Cabaret. I jumped at the offer, and we went to the Golden Gate Theater last night. The production very movingly presented the rise of the Nazi party and its anti-Semitism. The company did a wonderful job of making me feel horrible. I disliked all the characters, and hated that period of history. The final tableau of a death camp prisoner wearing a yellow star and a pink triangle left me thoroughly bummed out - sad and angry and ashamed to be human.

Then I drove us home. When we turned up Hyde Street, we saw City Hall, all lit up in rainbow colors. My jaw dropped and the car stopped, fortunately not too far from a red light. After we turned the corner onto McAllister, my friend suggested we pull to the curb to admire the view. So we did.

The illuminated building was so very beautiful. There was a layer of lights at the street level, another layer at the base of the dome, and other lights at the very top of the dome. They changed very slowly, as if the spectrum was gradually playing over City Hall.

The beauty of the display was like a beacon of hope in the darkness. We could feel the colors entering our eyes and skin; they came into our open mouths and we tasted them. We were nourished, and warmed, and inspired by the profound and magical beauty of those glorious colors against the stone building and night sky. We felt their textures and inhaled their aromas, and just drank them in with total awe and gratitude. I was moved to exclaim, "God bless the City and County of San Francisco!"

That was quite a palate-cleanser.

The End of Einstein

Last month I learned from the veterinary oncologist that my cat Einstein had weeks to months before his life would become more of a burden than a boon.

So I decided to make his last weeks as pleasant as I could make them. The vet suggested I cook for him, but prescribed suitable canned food after I told him I don't even cook for myself. So I provided him with the prescription food (of great flavor and calorie count) and other flavors of moist, stinky canned food for his eating pleasure.

Last week, I brought home some salmon from my breakfast, and he galloped across the kitchen to investigate that new scent. He was still sunning himself on the back stairs that week.

This week, however, he stopped galloping and secreted himself in a hiding place under the desk in the back hall.

I called a friend to help me decide if it was time, and she urged me to call a vet. The vet took one look at Einstein and suggested that he had reached a state where euthanasia was a good medical decision. So that's what we did this afternoon.

Lots of religious texts came to my mind, all Christian in source.

First, the Nunc Dimittis: Lord, now lettest Thou thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy Word.

Then, Requiescat in pacem. May he rest in peace.

And finally, I played a recording of Benjamin Britten's Rejoice in the Lamb in his honor, because of a solo that I sang in a performance long ago, as follows: For I will consider my cat Jeffrey, for he is a servant of the living God, duly and daily serving God. For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way. For this is done by wreathing his body seven times 'round with elegant quickness. For he knows that God is his savior. For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements. For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest. For I am possessed of a cat, surpassing in beauty, from whom I take occasion to bless Almighty God.

What's Up with My Cat

Cancer is a learning experience, even in a cat. I heard the diagnosis a month ago, and thereby entered cancer college.

Squamous cell carcimoma is common in cats. In humans, it usually arises on the skin from overexposure to the sun, or in the lungs from smoking. In fact, my response to hearing that the lump on my cat's chin was probably cancer was to ask him if he'd been smoking on the sly. Turns out, cats probably get this cancer from carcinogens in cat food cans. Since I never gave him canned food, though, some other cause seems indicated.

I learned from the vets that this cancer was aggressive, and that cats didn't respond well to treatment with surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, or all three. Palliative care is the best option. After a few weeks to a few months, he would "decline," and it would be up to me to decide when to have him put out of his suffering.

I bought him luscious prescription canned food, food that would tempt any cat not actually within death's door. And he was prescribed pain-killing drops that I am supposed to wrestle into his mouth three times a day or "as needed for the pain." As if any cat is going to admit to being in pain. Au contraire. Cats are driven as a survival mechanism to hide any distress.

He has been drooling some, perhaps because he can't close his mouth all the way. But drooling may also be a sign of pain in a cat. Dogs drool as a matter or course. But cats usually drool only when they are in severe pain or are deathly ill.

I'm cheered whenever he finishes eating a can of food. And I applaud when he seems to enjoy lying in the sunny back yard, or sitting in my lap, on his recliner, or on the filing cabinet next to the window overlooking the backyard - which I call "kitty TV."

Short of interspecies telepathy, however, I can't know precisely when his life becomes more of a burden than a pleasure. But if he stops eating, that'll be a pretty big clue that the time has come to release him to the elements.

I worry a bit that he may go outside, tuck himself into a dark corner somewhere, and quietly pass on. But keeping him inside would remove a major source of his pleasure. If he becomes too feeble to navigate the two flights of stairs leading down to the backyard, that would be another clue that the time may have come.

It's a puzzlement to me. An ex of mine had a cancerous cat, and regrets that she let him live and suffer as long as she did. I don't want to act too soon or too late. But there's no way to be precise about this. I might as well admit that I won't be ale to make the perfect decision, ask the cat and myself to forgive me in advance, and do the best I can. As if there's any other choice.

I'm in cancer college now, and the final exam is a killer.

More Intense Editing

I've started working on my book, Tales of a Seeker, with Calla and LauRose, two friends of mine who also write. Once a week, we spend an hour or so working separately on our projects, then come together and read bits to each other for comment. Besides copy-editing and bringing a fresh, if befuddled, ear to their words, I'm not sure how I'm helping them.

But I do know what they are contributing to my project, and it's to recognize what's good in it and to demand my very best.

I've imagined the book as an anthology of my various spiritual writings, with a little introduction to put my travels in order and some interstitial bits to add context. My friends, however, want to see where my travels have brought me. What has stayed with me and how has it affected my life. Are there any themes running through the various pieces. What hangs together and what sticks out.
Questions like that.

If those are the questions that come to them on hearing some of my pieces, then similar questions will probably come to at least some other readers. In which case, I should make a stab at answering them.

So I've printed out the current version of the manuscript so I can spread out the pages and make notes in the margins, and see what comes of it.

Stay tuned.

I Love Me Some Greens and Blues

I didn't know that I loved all things that are green and blue. The plastic pendant I've had since junior high school that's blue in front and green in back. The blue and green rubber bracelet that says "inspiring civility." Any book cover or patterned cloth or nature photograph that mixes greens and blues. Greens of plants and grass, and blues of sky and water. Greens and blues in Monet's water lilies, and in a poster I bought in the 70's of a ship with green sails on a blue sea.

Greens and blues are the colors of growth and spirit, of the printed flannel cloth I bought when 12 years old and sewed into pajamas, making and correcting every possible error. My green and blue spring ensemble - light green lightweight corduroy pants, a royallish blue corduroy overshirt, and a blouse of palest green with a blue floral print. And don't forget my blackwatch plaid flannel pjs and blouse.

Even my eyes are green and blue. For most of my life, the DMV, friends, and I believed them to be blue. On close examination, they had hints of gray at the outer edge of the iris and flecks of yellow at the inner edge. But for the last five years or so, my mirror and friends tell me that my eyes are green. I didn't know that eyes could change color. Maybe they just appear to be more green than blue now that my hair is more silver than brown?

Anyway, I liked my blue eyes, and I really like my green eyes. And I love looking at anything that has greens and blues together. Like a latchhook mat I made of a dolphin against a background of greens and blues. Like nearly any nature documentary on TV, like fabulous necklaces and Christmas ornaments I'll never buy but love drooling over.

I've been thinking about the cover design for my first self-published book, Not sure whether to use a photograph of nature's greens and blues, or an abstract design of some sort, but those will definitely be the colors I choose. Green for growth and blue for spirit, intertwined in life-giving motion.

Pain versus Suffering

My mother believed that, although pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. I try to live by this rule, but often break it - usually in the context of emotional pain, but also in cases of physical pain that I believe I could or should have avoided.

There are at least two levels of avoidable suffering. The first is the kind I add myself. Say I'm feeling lonely or bored, for example. That's a kind of pain. But I don't have to add suffering to the situation by blaming myself for feeling that way, by beating myself up for not taking better care of myself, or by slumping into depression because all I can remember and all I can imagine is feeling that painful way - eternally.

The means of avoiding this added suffering is to notice that I'm adding it and to choose not to. This requires stepping out of the pain enough to distinguish it from the added suffering. But that's not impossible - however hard it may seem.

Let's pretend I've mastered not making the pain worse. It is also possible to respond to pain in a way that makes it less painful. A friend of mine who is 81 years old said this morning that, although she's started noticing aches and pains in places she'd never noticed before, she's trying to view them as signs that she's still alive. Thinking about great wrongs and injustices in the world can also help put personal pains in a perspective that lessens their smart.

Regrettably, my first response to pain is either to try to stop it or to tell myself I can last until it quits. Because the vast majority of physical and emotional pains will subside with time.

This is a fact that serious meditators learn. The goal when experiencing pain while meditating is simply to observe it - neither clinging to it nor pushing it away, but simply noticing its location, shape, and character with a kindly curiosity. And also noting how swiftly it changes in some way or degree - because it will change.

A Capricious Universe?

A story I told myself was that something bad would happen to me if I let loose and fully enjoyed being in my body. I don't remember when it started, but I have a long history of having physical fun that is halted or followed by injury.

Fun on a skateboard ending with a skinned knee. Fun at the beach ends with near drowning, or a grain of sand scratching my eyeball, or a major sunburn leading to skin cancer.

The occasion I remember most clearly, I was at a retreat out of town, and we got to singing together. I banged joyfully on bongo drums and my thighs, and soared into an altered state of consciousness. The result of my heedless pleasure didn't appear until the next day, when we took a walk and I saw some rabbits in a hutch. I stuck a finger though the wire cage, and the bunny nibbled at my finger. It tickled a little and was strangely sensuous. Then the beast bit down on my finger, drawing blood.

I felt foolish and punished. That my mindless pursuit of pleasure then and the night before had somehow racked up a debt that the universe had to repay with pain. Like I'd strayed beyond the safety of self-control into a hazardous world. Like my life traversed perilous depths that only self-control keeps me out of. maybe there's a bit of logic in this story I tell myself, but not a whole lot.

Sometimes I wonder if there's a way to inhabit my body without drawing retribution. Surely there are places and occasions where ecstatic pleasure is not followed by pain. Surely there is room for some pleasures that don't court punishment. Maybe there are ways to accept gifts of joy with enough gratitude and thanks that the universe will hold the books to be balanced, and I won't get clobbered again.

I have a similar dread of counting chickens before they hatch, because on several long-ago occasions (I learned this lesson early and have followed it assiduously) I rejoiced in some apparent or approaching victory or gift, only to have it snatched away before I could grasp it.

This dread probably started in elementary school, when some friends played an April Fool's joke on my by lying to me that I'd been chosen to be on the school's safety patrol - to wear a belt of white straps and guard a crosswalk. I got all excited before they told me that they'd lied. The letdown hurt unbearable, and I felt stupid for letting them fool me. I didn't plan to be that foolish ever again. So ever since, I have held off rejoicing until I have taken possession of the cause.

Things You Learn

Things you learn through the dark times, the disruption, the transplanting. Things you learn when you have to start anew--in a new city, with a new guardian. WHen the only constants are your 11-year-old self or your 15-year-old self and the brother whose major role in your life has been as your sparring partner.

What do you learn from such times? Not to rely on what has gone before, not to rely on parent or grandparent, or friends, or uncles or aunts. You learn to walk a tightrope -- with longing for what is now gone on one side, and fear of the unknown on the other; each side descending to an invisible abyss.

You learn to root yourself in yourself, and in the present, and in whatever belongings have accompanied you in the latest move.

You rely on your intellect and your musical talent, and on your ability to just keep on going. Even if the world looks so bleak that bedtime is the brightest part of the day, or when you start crying for no clear reason and cannot stop.

And books are always your friends; a source of beauty, companionship, adventure, and escape. Escape into worlds where challenges are resolved and kids belong securely where they are. The adults in your life aren't cruel, mostly, just distracted and immature themselves.

It sucks when the teenages is the most responsible member of the household. You become more serious and less light-hearted. More cautious and less adventuresome. You look to the future with more dread than hope.

How I Want to Be Remembered

If I were to tell you how I want to be remembered, I'd start with, "as a kind person." I'd want no one to remember any cruelty of mine or at least not many of then, or at least not mentioning them aloud.

I'd want people to remember me as smart and funny, as a clear and moving writer, as a pleasant singer, and as a compelling actor.

I'd want people to remember my efforts to improve health care in our benighted country, with some success at least at the local and federal levels.

I'd want people to remember that I spent many years buying my home, so I could leave it in trust for poor lesbians to live in.

I'd want people to remember that I survived a childhood of deaths and disruptions to become a relatively sane, relatively useful person.

Some Things I Carry With Me

The fear may be starting up again. A thought while lying in bed about how I might feel when knowing myself to be dying is quickly repudiated, but it interrupted my sleep at 5 am for an hour or two and caused me to sleep in in the morning instead of meeting friends for breakfast.


The fear may be starting up again. Unlabeled anxiety pays a brief visit then lurks just offstage, waiting for its next cue. My bowels clutch and loosen with no apparent cause.

The fear may be starting up again. The fear that sent my appetite away for most of a year about a decade ago, so that I lost so much weight I was certain I was dying of cancer.

The fear may be starting up again. I cower in my home, glued to the couch, afraid of some unspecified bad thing happening to me if I go out into the world. But I do go out, at least several days a week, when I stumble into a reason that seems worthwhile, and I've survived so far.

The panics and loss of appetite haven't appeared, yet. Maybe the Prozac will continue to keep them at bay; maybe not.

I cast about for triggers. Maybe the short days are still weighing on me. Maybe my sedentary habits are getting to me.

Does it even matter how I feel? Not so much in the context of lead poisoning, random shootings, massive waves of refugees from war, terrorism, and gangs. Anxiety is small potatoes in the great scheme of things.

But still I am limited by this filter on my vision, this source of paralysis, the paper barrier between me and accomplishments. The barrier that looks like a brick wall, but crumbles when I put my foot through it. I know this barrier is soft; I've stepped through it again and agaiin. But it still takes me so long to get up the nerve to step through it. The courage to step over the edge of my stifling but safe nest. The willingness to act again against the cocoon of fear.

Activism and Writing

The first and only piece of creative writing I sold was a hybrid piece--partly a report on my participation in a political action about a police killing, and partly a rant about the recent spate of white police killing unarmed black men and boys. The change I want to make in my life right now is to get back into political activism--both to be contributing to social change, and to have some interesting activities to write about.

My chapter of an interfaith community organizing group is in some disarray, and I haven't found another issue that resonates with me. This is not to say that I'm entirely out of politics. I follow the news on MSNBC and PBS and NPR, I sign some petitions that show up on my Facebook feed or in my email, and I share petitions that I feel strongly about with my own FB friends.

But that's not enough. I need to find a cause that energizes me, and to get to work on it. I want to help brighten my corner of the world, and, not incidentally, also have events to write about.

An Unspoken Invitation

I listen for
an unspoken invitation.
An opening or a need
that I can fill.
Arms or warmth,
or a twitch at the corners of your mouth.

I am always surprised
when you reveal that
you thought of me
when we were apart.
I warm to know
you thought of a question
you wanted to ask me,
even though you can't remember it now.

Sometimes I report having
thought of someone else in her absence -
or I simply call her or send an email.
This takes faith
that I'm not intruding,
faith that I offer something of value.
Faith that I can bring attention
and kindness to you,
and such wisdom as I've painfully won,
or at least the perspective
that comes from not being beset
by your problems.
Having this perspective
brings me relief from my own funk
at the same time as it is a gift.
I have faith in this
else I wouldn't dare try.

I have proven toxic in the past,
but I have reformed
sometimes.
Sometimes I can realize how I appear
self-centered and uncaring.
And sometimes I can be kind and caring.
No one I know is all of a piece,
although we try to stay in our best selves.
We slip and fall,
and get up, and stumble,
and each time we get up again
we grow stronger,
better,
kinder,
more whole,
more peaceful,
more ourselves,
and more quick to recover from our lapses.
We journey with hope,
always arriving.

Finding a Kindred Spirit

Once I came up to a couple who belonged to my church, and announced that they were my kind of people. They lit up, and we became friends. Years later, they told me that my statement had drawn them to me. What I hadn't said at the time was that what I had actually noticed about them was that they were, like me, quite short. This shared trait was enough for me to create some fellow feeling. They had, however, taken my comment as referring to their character or interests or spirituality, at any rate, as something deeper than their actual height.

I have found that a similarity in height is helpful in a romantic situation, but it can't be the only thing we share. I tried that once or twice, and it doesn't work.

For a good relationship of any kind, one needs a kindred spirit. We must share some values and some interests. Complete identity of these characteristics isn't required, but some overlap is needed to make a relationship work.

When I was trying to be straight, I somehow acquired an extremely tall boyfriend who belonged to my church. We shared a belief in God and the commandments, so unmarried sex was not an option. Our intellectual interests were quite different, and our musical tastes intersected only at the Carpenters. But we kissed and cuddled, and suited each other well enough until I moved away for law school.

Then I sought friends among classmates and fellow congregants, and started to come out as a lesbian. But did I ever find a kindred spirit, a soul mate? I kept thinking I had found someone who was kin enough, but sooner or later it fell apart. Sarah lasted the longest.

I may not have the gift of having or being a kindred spirit. So nowadays I cultivate whatever kind of relationship develops with my friends. If I ask of no one what she doesn't have to give, maybe she won't ask me for what I don't have to give, and we can enjoy each other for who we are.

Leaving Something Behind

Sarah left me behind when she retired. Her Oakland home had been where we were together, where we shared a double bed, where we played early music with our friends. Restaurants on Claremont Avenue were our playground. Fifteen years my senior, she retired when I was 50, but the earliest I could imagine retiring was at age 55. I did retire at 57, but that's another story.

As she later told me, she was then in survival mode. Still recovering from a knee injury, she had to find a home that she could afford, one that had no stairs and was convenient to public transportation (she doesn't drive).

She found herself a condo in Berkeley, but it was a studio with a twin bed instead of her spacious one-bedroom flat. So I couldn't spend the night at her place, although the early music group continued to meet in a public room in the building.

When she refused to visit me in San Francisco, I began to understand that our relationship had changed. I finally got the nerve to ask her how she characterized our relationship, and she said, friends - which confirmed my impression. It seems we had gradually, silently broken up.

I swallowed the bleak anger and hurt I felt in the interest of keeping her as a friend, and began to look around for a new lover. My next choice wasn't as good, but that's also another story.

Why didn't it occur to me to ask her what was happening at the time it was happening? Maybe because I hate arguments and raised voices. Maybe because I'd been presented with a lot of changes that were beyond my control when I was growing up. Objecting wasn't an option then, and it often seems beyond me now.