Author: headwindjournal

About me and head wind journal A head wind is a wind that slows us down. Stops our forward motion, at least temporarily. During this lull, I feel the mind breezes. Like clouds above the ocean, they may take shape or drift away. I sailed into the blogging world in January of 2013. At the time, I was still working as a freelance writer, that is, writing for clients and the local newspaper. So I set up head wind journal as an outlet for my own essay writing – and for the photos I take while walking around. It’s been fun, more fun than working!

Pondering the Power(less) Look

I base most of my fashion taste on what doesn’t itch. – Gilda Radner

Why have tight sleeveless dresses and 4-inch heels become the modern professional woman’s uniform de rigueur? Rigorous indeed, requiring girdles (sorry, Spanx!) to squeeze into sausage casings with no room to breathe or move. Shoes needing morphine and lots of balance training just to maneuver across a room. I don’t care how much they cost or if they have signature red soles, they still hurt like hell.

Who has decided that this is the “power” look? If women in these outfits can’t feel free and have to deny they are in pain, why is it powerful? Where did this latest fashion come from? Possibly the popular TV show, Mad Men. It beautifully captured our nostalgia for smoking and drinking and eating bacon with carefree abandon as well as for mid-century modern design and dress.

Ironically, the women in Mad Men lacked inherent power and if they had any career aspirations, they had to fight for them and survive being treated as objects. Like Ginger Rogers, they did everything men did, but backwards and in heels. The show’s fallout has exaggerated women’s fashion of that time. Having worked during part of the 60s, I remember that our sheath dresses were loose and comfortable and the heels, while not comfortable, were more like two inches.

So is today’s sex-object dressing a weird sort of retaliation? Women have made considerable progress in the work world. Do they feel guilty? Do they feel they have to placate men’s egos, prove they are still feminine even though they are bosses? Defer to a twisted idea of what looks powerful?

Personally, I preferred the fashions of the late 60s and 70s, simple flowing lines, dresses and pantsuits that were flattering and comfortable. The styles accommodated work and play. In the 80s, power suits made their appearance. I had a grey flannel pinstripe skirt and jacket I wore for important meetings at Xerox. In those days, we also pulled on pantyhose and clunked around on solid heels. Our jackets and blouses came with shoulder pads and we looked like linemen for the Green Bay Packers.

The next two decades brought softer styles and in some industries, such as hi-tech where I was a technical writer, it was anything goes. Grunge, punk, lumberjack, surfer dude, super jock. Jeans on casual Fridays became torn jeans or even shorts and flip flops every day. The men and women engineers at Qualcomm don’t trust suits and sexpots.

In the small but upscale beach town where I live, we see every type of fashion, from bathing suits to long dresses. If a woman walks by in a tight dress and high heels, most likely she is a banker, realtor, business coach or fundraiser. Or, according to a local joke, she could be the mistress of a rich man up in L.A., especially if she’s young.

Occasionally I see an older woman decked out in a bright red or blue satin suit and a little hat and even though I might not want to wear that myself, I feel happy for her – go for it! She’s obviously enjoying herself. And so are the many artists and other creative folk who invent colorful costumes.

Yoga, pilates and other workout studios are popular here – and so are new stores selling the right clothes to work out in. Yoga pants in wild colors and prints are now walking from morning to night up and down the sidewalks. They are extremely forgiving and with a flowy blouse or cardigan, look great.

I prefer to change into jeans when I get home from yoga. I like my yoga pants, but they are a little too warm and sweaty for me to wear all day. And my jeans keep my diet honest. When they feel tight, I know I’m eating too much.

Really I think we should be able to wear what we want and enjoy whatever style we think suits us and our lifestyle. Overall, that’s the general way fashion goes for most of us. I try to keep an open mind about what others wear.

I’m just having a hard time with the sexpot look. I am not against looking sexy, but when I see the poor women newscasters on TV with every bulge magnified, I feel sad. Hopefully the Mad Men phase will pass. Recently I read an article on how fashion designers are promoting a new gender neutral style. Photos of androgynous models in heavy wool pants and sweaters. They aren’t as bad as the top-heavy jackets of the 80s, but my god, looking at them makes my skin itch.

Here I Am versus There You Are, Feline Version

There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who walk into a room and say, “There you are!” and those who say, “Here I am!” — Abigail Van Buren (Dear Abby)

Leaving aside people, I’d like to apply this distinction to cats. Dogs, in my experience, are a revolving door of both, but I could be wrong, not having lived with any long enough to fully appreciate unique canine personalities.

Cats I know well, having shared space with them most of my life. Currently three: Dewey, 8, and sisters Lily and Zoe, 5.

Lily leaps into the “Here I am!” category. Walk into a room and she comes running and yowling. For such a slim and non-Siamese cat, she has a loud and deep voice. If anyone appears at the door, she’s right in front of them in a flash. “Hi, pet me! Aren’t I beautiful?” If I talk to one of the other cats, she also comes running, even if in a deep sleep in a far corner.

Like a jealous kid, she can’t stand it if she’s not the center of attention. Her worst habit is wanting this attention whenever I’m on the phone. She makes such a ruckus I can’t hear the person on the other end. This is not too bad if it’s friends or family, but with business conference calls, it’s embarrassing. I’ve tried shutting her out of my office, but she soon escalates into a full-blown tantrum, throwing herself at the door. I try to remain calm and professional, hoping the corporate stiffs are not picturing me in a zoo in my pajamas with wild hair.

Lily is my only lap cat. “Here I am, now that you have your morning coffee and writing journal so well arranged on this comfy couch.” She is also the most agile, able to leap and land in high places.

Just as Lily is slim and loud, her sister Zoe is compact and quiet. If a stranger comes to the door, she retreats into the “There you are and I don’t want to be here” category. Eventually she’ll walk halfway back and watch warily. If it’s me, she’ll approach slowly. Unlike Lily, she doesn’t like her head rubbed, prefers to be brushed or patted on the rump. She has a soft purr and meow. But of all my cats, she is the one who prefers my company during the day. “There you are!” Working at your computer? I’ll help you by walking across your keyboard. Wrapping presents or addressing envelopes? Perfect resting spot. In the mornings, she is the quietest, snuggling into the back of my knees until I actually stretch and say good morning.

It took me awhile to realize that she is the sneakiest of my cats and that she exacts revenge on the other two. Every morning, she and Dewey get into a wrestling and howling match for about five minutes. Then Zoe saunters up to Lily who hisses. Mostly the cats get along and I assumed that it was Dewey and Lily who were being more aggressive. But no! After watching more carefully, I realized that Zoe pounces on Dewey every morning, wrestles him to the ground, then chases Lily into a corner and bats her on the head. So, she has her way of saying “Here I am!”

Dewey the oldest is the shiest. He was a terrified kitten when I adopted him from the Humane Society, found at the age of five weeks alone on a sidewalk. He shook when I lifted him out of his cage and then spent three days under my couch when I brought him home. His stance was definitely, “There you are and I want nothing to do with you.” Almost as far as a feral cat, but fortunately not entirely.

Gradually he learned to trust and “There you are” became his reassurance. He transformed into one of the sweetest and most loving cats I’ve ever known. He is the first one I see in the morning, sitting by my head, watching. As soon as I open my eyes, he kneads his way across my stomach. This brings Lily leaping to the top of the bed.

Dewey is the only one who sticks his head into what I’m eating. He loves eggs and turkey bacon. He is an affectionate big brother to his sisters. Licks them both on the head, often taking the lead with Zoe and responding to Lily’s “Here I am, lick it.”

Like Zoe, he runs from most people he doesn’t know. Unlike Zoe, he doesn’t sneak back, but hides under my bed covers until strangers leave, a big lump in the middle.

When my son and his wife visit with their dog, Ruby – “Here I am! Here I am!” – all three cats scramble under the covers. “There you are, you little alien. Here we are not. Go away.”

Snip, Snip …

My ears buzzed and the papers on my desk flew around when the gardener aimed his leaf blower at my screen door.

I got up in a flash and shut the door. Usually I am prepared. I know when he’s coming, Thursdays around 11:30, and I have closed the sliding door from my office to my patio. Sometimes if I’m working hard and trying to focus, I even pull my curtains shut.

It took me awhile to get used to this giant hulk of a man with a sullen face appearing outside just a few feet away. I’d be working quietly at my computer, sensing a movement beyond where one of my cats might be creeping. Or – one of my cats would make a wild jump and crazed exit from the room. Suddenly this big man with a big machine loomed into the room and I jumped out of my chair and my skin.

The landlord warned me to watch the gardener (I use the word gardener loosely) carefully if I asked for any trimming. The gardener’s idea of trimming is to hack into desolation. I decided not to ask him for any special pruning favors. Once I asked him to please move his van so I could back out of my carport space. He slammed so many doors while glaring at me that I figured I’d better keep my distance, especially when he has pointy shears or a buzz saw in his hands.

One Thursday I was working behind closed curtains. I heard the Hacker from Hell arrive and the blowing and buzzing circled my house, past my side windows. Then a silence. Then … snip, snip … snip, snip. Buzz, buzz!

I ran to my side door. All the morning glories lining the walkway, glowing periwinkle blue into my kitchen, were gone. A few sticks and twigs hung out, giving me the finger.

And the gardener was gone, long gone, off to work his wrecking magic on another garden.

In the meantime, my front window is so overgrown it looks like a creepy illustration from the Brothers Grimm fairytales. I’m afraid if I ask the buzzy giant for help, he’ll hack down the beautiful tree and leave us bare assed naked.

Say Hi to the Bogeyman

Fear = a feeling of doom, unease, or apprehensiveness in response to imminent danger.

Anxiety = a feeling of doom, unease, or apprehensiveness when no danger is imminently present.

Anxiety is a bitch. And a bastard. Sexless, senseless, it free floats without a specific cause or object. It lurks under the bed like the bogeyman and rattles us awake at 2 in the morning. It swoops down from sunny skies above, claws extended.

It’s part of the human condition. We are all here temporarily, but we don’t know anything for sure, except that we will die one day. We are still trying to outrun the wooly mammoth to one degree or another. I sympathize with those who run in place daily in a panic.

I’ve been fortunate to elude the bogeyman as I’ve gotten older. I attribute my calmer state to an inherent Type B personality, less junk food, more yoga and writing and a devious imagination. When I find myself staring into a dreadful night, I switch my thoughts over to real fears. These at least are identifiable and can be reasoned with. For example, I can be grateful I do not have a tarantula on my pillow, nor do I have to crawl under the house, back a semi into a narrow parking lot or bungee jump off a tall jungle tree full of tarantulas.

Yeah! Life is good!

A far as I understand panic attacks, I think I’ve only had one in my life, about 20 years ago. I was driving south on the 405 Freeway, just past Long Beach, where it suddenly opens up to 12 lanes. Out of nowhere, the thought hit me, “Here I am in this tiny piece of metal hurtling along at 80 miles an hour, completely boxed in by others also hurtling along at 80 miles an hour.”

And, just like that, I had an out of body experience. My mind left my body and I could see this speeding mass below me. I started to shake. Since I was out of my body, who was driving? For another minute, I thought I was going to have to pull over. But I returned, sweaty hands firmly on the wheel, shaking until I passed Huntington Beach. It has never happened again.

What bothers me more today is the anxiety in other people – more specifically, the coping mechanisms they use from religious beliefs to controlling behavior. Religious or spiritual philosophies run the gamut (the anxiety gauntlet?) from “We can control nothing, god is in charge,” to “We can control everything if we have The Secret. If we think the right thoughts, we will attract the results we want.” Yeah, right. I’m still vibrating my energies into an Italian villa.

Mean bosses and co-workers are another example of unacknowledged anxiety run amok. They are impossible to please or to work with productively. For example, if you work quietly alone, they label you as not communicating or being a team player. If you ask questions and report in, then you are not self reliant or competent. And if you dare to point out that being stuck between a rock and a cement block is not a valid Employee Review category, well, that doesn’t go over well and soon you will be at the bottom of the canyon.

Bossy acquaintances bug me too. Rather than admit we are all on shaky ground, they prefer to come across as knowing all, which entitles them to offer advice. Constant advice on any topic, even if it’s not based on personal experience. After all, they feel so wise, how can the world not benefit from their endless wisdom? It’s astounding to watch this arrogance in action, but I do understand where it comes from, the Ax-word again.

“If I tell you what to do and feel, then I’ll feel more in charge. If I tell you how to avoid the jaws of flying dinosaurs, I won’t have to notice the one that’s coming after me.”

Let the bitch in, I say. And adopt the bastard.

Beware the Grocery Grumps

I recently passed a woman going into our neighborhood grocery store. She paused at the door and gave herself the sign of the cross.

“Way to go,” I thought, even though I’m not religious.

Now maybe she was praying for someone or something outside the store, but I like to think she was asking for blessings to survive the next hour inside.

I dislike shopping for food, but I have to go since I enjoy eating and cooking (mostly) healthfully. There’s only so much I can forage from the drugstore and the 99 cent stores. I mourned the day when the local CVS stopped selling tomatoes and a few pieces of tired fruit.

I wish I were like my friends who love grocery stores. The more they can peruse in one day, the happier they are. Each one fills a different creative culinary need and evokes visions of exotic dishes THEY ACTUALLY MAKE.

Asian Market in Cleveland taken by my friend Sandy Woodthorpe who loves grocery shopping

No such visions for me. There’s something about walking – or I should say squeaky wheeling – my way down the grocery store aisles that sends me into a grumpy coma, the same way I used to feel when looking at sewing or wallpaper catalogues. Alas, farmer’s markets have the same effect. The plethora of colors and shapes blurs together. I know I should be thrilled to find 10 brands of organic kale and 20 kinds of peppers, but my brain goes into hibernation mode. Or is it fight or flight?

I go early to avoid the aisle hogs, the cell phone blabbers and the mothers with screaming children in SEPARATE carts shaped like cars. Once I followed a woman who blocked every aisle. I turned each corner and there she was. When I finally left and was trying to get out of the parking lot, her husband pulled a car in front of the store, blocking the exit for everyone.

Lately I’ve been avoiding the store that is closest to me, only a half block away. It is like a huge dark cavern inside, hard to see, worse, the clerks are like crabby trolls maybe because they see no sunshine. Every few months they get to work rearranging everything. I try to follow the good eating advice – stick to the outer edges of the store. This works for two sides: produce and fish and meat. The third is a bakery with enough bagels and chocolate chip cookies to feed a convention. The fourth contains a Starbucks and Jamba Juice, a bank, a cleaners and a complaint desk. Oh yes, the deli – where you have to yell to get attention, then wait 10 minutes while a sandwich is put together, then be told you have to take it to the checkout line, even though they are standing behind a cash register.

So I usually go to smaller stores, recently checked out a new Haggen, formerly Albertsons. As far as I could tell, nothing had changed except the workers were wearing green instead of blue. Fortunately they are friendly and the store and its parking lot are easy to navigate. I can usually get in and out before the brain fog does too much damage.

I can also survive Sprouts and Trader Joe’s when not crowded. Sprouts is a mini version of Whole Foods with the healthy food but without the exorbitant prices and warehouse interiors. At Sprouts I like the bins of nuts and granola, although scooping them into narrow bags and writing code numbers on plastic ties is a challenge. Also, the cosmetics and vitamin section has that weird smell shared by all health food stores. What is it anyway? Gag me with tea tree oil.

Trader Joe’s takes some getting used to – layout, placement and packaging. Being a writer, I love the way their Fearless Flyer is written and it makes me want to buy several dozen items. Unfortunately, when I get to the store, the coma sets in and I usually get far more – and far different – items than I planned to and have to stagger to the checkout stand, since I didn’t get a big cart. At least the creativity here gives me some pleasure.

I realize I could probably buy many food items online. It just seems so decadent. Yet my grandmother, a great cook, ordered her groceries by phone several times a week. The local market delivered. She NEVER went to the grocery store. In fact, it would have horrified her.

By odd coincidence, her home phone number was one digit off from the store’s. So people were calling all day with their orders. She would yell, “I’m not the grocery store, you idiot!” and bang down the phone receiver.

Maybe it’s genetic.

When the Old New is New Again

It was bound to break eventually. In fact, I’m surprised it hasn’t already – having survived decades of two sons, many visiting children and dogs, a dozen resident cats.

Yes, my grandmother’s Chinese vase she converted into a lamp lies in pieces too numerous to reassemble. My cats took off in the middle of the night, launching themselves off our bed, down the long hallway, into the living room, across the back of the couch – and crash! – onto the side table and into the lamp.

I got up in a hurry. What were they chasing? Nothing I could see.

I’ve heard this crash before and usually it’s the wood-based lamp on the other side of the couch. Also a Chinese antique, but strong enough to survive assaults. No, this time it was the turquoise and coral vase/lamp. I burst into tears, which set the cats running back down the hall in the opposite direction. Since then, I haven’t had the heart to pick up the pieces behind the table in a corner on the floor.

The vase was given to my grandmother by her father, a Scottish sea captain who brought it from China in the late 1800s or early 1900s. After retiring in Scotland, he came to live with her and my grandfather in Montreal and her home included many of his Chinese treasures – statues, plaques, screens.

My grandmother was a creative woman who loved to cook, sew and garden. She wrote letters to me that were little gems of poetry. If she were alive today, she’d be a writer or an artist.

She was also modern in her tastes, despite the Chinese antiques. In the 1950s, she redecorated her living room with lime green couches and blond, kidney-shaped tables. She made the housepainter repaint the walls because they weren’t the right shade of pale lime green.

When she and my grandfather followed us out to California in the ’60s, she furnished their tiny apartment overlooking the ocean with Scandinavian teak – clean, simple, elegant lines perfectly suited for their new, smaller home and lifestyle. A nearby store featured ultra modern home accessories and she became one of their favorite customers, buying items from Finnish Marimekko cushions to space-age Danish silver bowls to Swedish crystal glasses.

When she died, a year after my grandfather, my sister and I inherited several of her pieces. I loved the lamps because they fit in with my furniture as my own tastes and budget changed. I also adopted and immediately loved their two matching Danish modern teak bureaus. My grandparents initially mounted them on their bedroom wall. Talk about streamlined! Then my grandfather added slim legs.

I used them for years in my bedroom and in recent years in my dining room as a side buffet. They too seem to fit in with any décor. My favorite was in front of a wall I painted orange.

Now this look that was once new and is now old is new again. It’s all the rage, mid-century modern. We want to go back in time to a simpler age.

As I scale down in my own life, I want to live with less, distill to the essence. I mourn the passing of 100 years, now in fragments.

I think I’ll move the teak bureaus back into my bedroom, get rid of the rattan monstrosity, and welcome in the modern spirit of my grandmother.

Spring Break

New growth, renewal. A temporary suspension of reality, a parting of ways from everyday life. A cocktail mix of uppers and downers. A floating out on the waters with no needs other than air.

Better than a regular vacation, without schedules and itineraries, better than holidays with obligations.

Yes, a different animal altogether. One could say party animal, but spring break welcomes so many more, encompasses so much more.

A year ago I was in Cabo at this time. It wasn’t until I checked in that I realized I was sharing the resort with several hundred 20-year-olds. They came pouring out of shuttle vans, grouping into the lobby with duffel bags, an expectant buzz, surprisingly low-key and innocent. Easter/Passover/ Pagan Equinox were still off two or three weeks, but in Cabo Spring Break lasts … well probably all year! And you don’t have to be a student or 20 to enjoy Spring Break.

Yes, there were older people wandering around too. Although we were outnumbered, I saw young families, couples, middle-aged and beyond. Some retirees have time shares and return every spring to experience the bustling nest, the sense of buoyancy.

No wonder. Something’s in the air. We’ve all become fledglings learning to fly and age doesn’t seem to matter. Yes, the young have more perfect bodies and occasionally send whooping calls through the halls, but overall there is a sense of ageless movement and civility.

On a side trip up the coast to Todos Santos, one woman, younger than I, staying at another resort, complained about all the wild kids. The irresponsibility, the rudeness, the danger. I wondered if her resort was different from mine; not all are family-oriented. Or was it her attitude? Was she never young and crazy? I did not encounter one young person who was out of control. Of course I know they are in some places, but the Spring Breaks I am remembering and celebrating are flying at the right altitudes.

Now we have the Spring Breakers descending on our beach town. There are complaints about the extra cars on the streets and crowds on the sidewalks, and in some vacation rentals, parties that go on all night. So far I’ve been lucky. Except for a bachelor neighbor who entertained in his hot tub under my bedroom window a few years ago, my block has been quiet and I can sleep.

I like to watch the Spring Breakers in their happy trances. Families by the rocky coast and bay, strolling into shops and restaurants, cleaning out their sand pails and flippers, hanging their beach towels along fences and railings. Teen-agers and 20-somethings jostling and flirting along the oceanfront boardwalk. No, I don’t sit on the beach or the bar stools with them. Let them enjoy while they can. Soon enough they’ll return to the real world, work or school, leaving behind the spirit of Spring Break for us to float on and breathe in with the salty air.

Five Reasons Why I Won’t be Reading or Seeing “Fifty Shades of Grey”

The forward movement for fair treatment is ongoing. Whether it’s about gender, race, sexual orientation or other categories, the movement meets with continual resistance from power and hate mongers. Sometimes this resistance takes the form of popular entertainment, such as money-making novels and movies. This form is particularly onerous, since it attempts to gloss over the rotten and make acceptable what is not acceptable.

And so, here are five of my reasons for not accepting Fifty Shades of Grey.

1. I don’t like feeling pain – physical, emotional or intellectual. When I feel pain, my instinct is to get rid of it as soon as possible. Figure out what’s causing it and fix it. The only pain I can put up with is that which I know is temporary and has been caused by something worthwhile, like moving or gardening or starting a new exercise routine.

I don’t consider sadistic sex a good exercise routine. Inviting a sadist into my bedroom would be like going shopping with a kleptomaniac or to a barn raising with an arsonist.

2. I don’t like watching pain. Just as I don’t like to feel pain, I don’t like to see it inflicted on others, either people or animals. Especially if there is no other point to a story. And what is the point of Fifty Shades? That sadism, suffering and humiliation are necessary for human connection?

This is what I mean by intellectual pain. It transcends the physical and emotional. It’s outrage that in a world where women have made such progress, fought and still fight against all odds for equal footing on rocky terrain, they are being shown it’s exciting to lie back on the jagged rocks, bleed and feel degraded. Personally I’d like to see that author confined to a cave where she belongs with a huge hairy ape for company.

3. I am claustrophobic, so just the idea of suffocating in a burka, or being tied up and not allowed to move makes me want to run a thousand miles an hour away from kinky crowding.

4. I don’t like being told what to do – the mental equivalent of claustrophobia? Please don’t tell me where my mind or my body should go or how they should move or look. I like my mind and body and don’t feel the need to be punished or forced to enjoy sex or anything for that matter.

5. My colors are not black, white or grey. Black and white are too stark for me, too either/or. Grey is a mixture. We are all a mixture and sex can be a mixture of many things. But grey is also gloomy and foggy and sometimes hides the naked truth – that cruelty is cruelty and not a warped sense of power or sensuality. The only acceptable grey is the silver lining of mental respect that shines through if we see with clear vision. Those who prefer to live with pain are free to do so, but it makes me very, very sad. We deserve to enjoy our liberation without punishment and our true love without begging.

A postscript:
Excerpt from New York Times, March 10, 2015
U.N. Reveals ‘Alarmingly High’ Levels of Violence Against Women
by Somini Sengupta

Despite the gains women have made in education, health and even political power in the course of a generation, violence against women and girls worldwide “persists at alarmingly high levels,” according to a United Nations analysis that Secretary General Ban Ki-moon presented to the General Assembly on Monday.

About 35 percent of women worldwide — more than one in three — said they had experienced physical violence in their lifetime, the report finds. One in 10 girls under the age of 18 was forced to have sex, it says.

Je Vois, J’ai Vu, Je Vais Voir (I See, I Have Seen, I Will See)

There is a lot of talk today about being here now, but what does it mean? Do we not look back or forward? Do we train our minds not to wander, to stay focused on the present moment? Is this what is called being mindful? What does mindful mean?

The busier, faster and noisier our lives become, the more we are being told to slow down, breathe, savor the moment, be here now. If we can hear over the increasing din, the message is “Live for the present, be in the zone, zenfully alive.”

It’s kind of like trying to grab the brass ring on an out-of-control merry-go-round with monkeys running wild. Or being held captive in a corporate retreat and told you have to manage 20 more projects and attend a new workshop on stress relief.

Buddha supposedly said, “Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.” (Some Buddhists say this is not an exact quote and that he actually advised not attaching to thoughts in the present either.)

Sayings like this are satisfying, but only briefly. They seem to make sense at first, then actually lead to more questions the more I think about them.

It does make sense not to dwell too much in the past or future. If someone has hurt us or we’ve made mistakes in the past, the sooner we can forgive them and ourselves and move into enjoying our current lives. Each of us might have to handle this in a different way and on a different timetable.

I knew a man who was stuck in the past. One beautiful morning we walked on the beach and he spent the whole time complaining about his ex-wife, trying to convince me that she belonged in the nut house and was responsible for all his troubles. When we got home, I was exhausted. Then, by accident, I met the ex-wife at a social function. She seemed fine to me, had happily remarried 10 years earlier. In the meantime, my friend lived in a dark hovel of an apartment and drove a piece of shit car.

I’ve also known people who are afraid of the future, of trying anything new, who send doomsday prophecy emails or spend hours planning for every possible disaster scenario when they make a purchase or take a trip.

Sometimes looking back or forward can be helpful. If we lose a loved one, we can remember good times and soften the grief somewhat. If we are undergoing physical therapy or chemotherapy, we can envision ourselves getting better and stronger every day as we reach into our healthier future, because, let’s face it, the present sucks.

While the concept of being present in the present (the present is a present!) is helpful, it is not a rigid rule or formula. I like to think of the idea as a guideline. My mind feels best when it can flow freely, back and forth, keeping a balance. Like standing on a rock in the ocean, if I tilt back or forward too far and too long, I might slip into the water and go under.

So I am mindful of where I stand and of all that is around me.

California

Never the same. Endless days of sun, nights of blood-orange sunsets. Some mornings new and rosy, some muted. Days of drought, wildfires, parched and shifting earth. Dark days of fog, rain and sliding hillsides. Crowded, curlicue freeways, deep and coyote-filled canyons. Disappearing cottages. Rising prices, mansions.

Dreams as big as the ocean, christened by the waves. Friends as new and unfettered as you can find. Or as veiled and sequestered as you prefer to remain. (Chances your children will throw off the robes.)

Men and women as beautiful as Hollywood moguls can invent. Men and women as plain as the prairies and rusty, dusty towns they left in a hurry. Families of the earth who raise chickens and vegetables in their backyard and sell eggs and turnips at the farmer’s market.

People of many tongues and colors. They go to work every day, driving taxis, painting toenails, hauling trash, sending their sons and daughters to school so they can go to work every day carrying a computer. Hi-tech, bio-tech, big pharma, little geeks.

Leading edge, cutting edge, falling off the edge, as did Columbus to discover New Worlds. New lives, new identities.

Wherever you go, there you are is no longer true. The earth can shake and rotate swallowing you into oblivion. While you sleep, it coughs you out and there you are in the morning, glowing new as a baby.

Ready to invent vaccines, Google, cures for cancer and disappearing coral reefs. Vote in a leader who is still dreaming, but has slid down moonbeams to earth, managing to offend few.

In one day, travel from sea lavender and sand, fall into meadows and forests, drink deeply of the desert air. Celebrate the return of the condor, the largest bird in North America, flying over this wildest land with a swoop and salute.

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