My Story Lives

The Movie Screen in Your Mind

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 12:40:00 +0000

NOTE: The following was the second meditation exercise I led in the Happiness class this semester. (The first exercise was "Warm Up: Writing in a Sunny Waterfall." For many students, this was their first exposure to meditation. After the class, the teaching assistant for the course -- a college senior who has had considerable experience meditating -- sent me the email that follows the exercise.

Try this: close your eyes and slowly take in a long slow breath.

Release the breath from your nose, letting the air make a little puffing noise, quietly so only you can hear it.

Do it again. Slowly.

And when you release the air, let go of all the stress you're holding in your body.

Let your neck and shoulders go limp.

Let your head hang forward.

Let your jaw go slack.

Let your back soften.

Let the muscles soften in both arms.

Both legs.

Your feet.

Breathe in again. And again, let the air out with a quiet little puff. Think about your entire body going limp.

All the stress draining onto the floor and disappearing.

Keeping your eyes closed, now imagine a screen, a white screen, in the space right above your nose.

It's a screen like those you see in a movie theatre, or the one right here in the classroom.

This is your own private little movie screen. See it there in your mind right above your eyes, stretching to fill your forehead?

Stare at it for a moment. Let it stay white. Steady your inner gaze right on that screen.

Now shift your attention back to your breath.

Breathe in, normally. And then let the breath out, with a tiny puff. Feel the air coming out of your nose.

Maybe it feels warm. Maybe it feels cool. Maybe it wants to be a color.

Golden like the sun. Light blue like the sky. Pink and orange like a sunset.

Or white like the fluffy clouds and your movie screen.

Just let your breath be whatever it wants to be.

Try this for a few minutes.

Soon, something will pop up onto your movie screen.

A thought. A story of something you did. Something that's bothering you. A person you're angry at. Something you have to do. Somewhere you have to go. Somebody you miss dearly.

See it there on the movie screen.

And very slowly, breathe in. And when you release your breath with that little puff, imagine your breath magically wipes the movie screen clean.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Puff. The screen is clean.

The screen is clean.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Maybe you want to count your breaths.

Breathe in. Puff out. One.

Breathe in. Puff out. Two.

Breathe in. Puff out. Three,

Breathe in. Puff out. Four.

Keep going.

Maybe there is another movie there.

There will be.

More and more and more movies.

And every time one more movie appears. One more thought. One more person. One more story. One more troubling idea.

See it there on the screen.

And then, puff it away with your breath.

Feel the breath.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

And now, continue. As long as you can.

See the movie.

Let the breath puff the movie screen

absolutely

clean.

Email from Lori Walker, TA for the Happiness class:

"Hello Professor!

I just wanted to send you an e-mail and let you know that I really liked the "white screen" meditation that we did in class today :-). I could understand what some of the people in class were saying about how it was difficult to keep a "clear" mind after a while, but personally I enjoyed that. I found it easier to bring to my attention things that were on my mind and project them onto the screen and then dismiss them. It actually reminded me of that book by Deepak Chopra ("The Shadow Effect"), where he talks about bringing your emotions to your awareness and sitting with them as if they were a child and then letting them go. The visualization of the blank screen made it easier to bring those feelings into my awareness and then let them go. Perhaps towards the later part of the class, we should try that exercise again and see if any of the students like it any more?"

FLAMENCO HEATS THINGS UP AT THE HUDSON-CHATHAM WINERY

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 10:59:00 +0000

By Dominique De Vito

OK, so it hasn’t been a particularly frigid or snowy winter (hooray!), but it’s still cold and gloomy outside. If you're in the mood to shake off the winter blues and feel some heat, then you’ll want to join us at the Hudson-Chatham Winery on Saturday, February 11th for a Heat in the Cold Super Celebration!

The winery is thrilled to be hosting internationally-renowned flamenco guitarist Maria Zemantauski for the afternoon. Many of you have heard Maria play at our legendary Sangria Festival in August. Maria’s back for this special event, joining Huffington Post blogger and local author Claudia Ricci for a book signing of Seeing Red.

Claudia’s book (she borrowed the title "Seeing Red" from a CD by Zemantauski, who's been her guitar teacher for many years) is a page-turner about a woman who travels half-way around the world in search of true love, only to find it in the magic of her own flamenco dancing. You’ll be transported by the words and the music – and a tasting of the winery’s award-winning wines! – inside our cozy tasting room.

For additional heat, we’ll have some yummy nibbles featuring Larry's Southwestern Sauces, R&G’s amazing Maple Chipotle chevre cheese, and a special wine cocktail. Bring some friends and make an afternoon of it at the Hudson-Chatham Winery. You may come in cold, but you'll go home hot and smiling too!

Winery hours are 12 noon to 5 pm.

Maria will be playing between 12:30 and 3:30, and Claudia will be signing books from 12:30 on. There is no admission fee. The winery
is located at 1900 State Rte. 66 in Ghent, NY. For more information, visit www.hudson-chathamwinery.com, or call 518-392-WINE. Hope to see you at the winery really soon!

TULUM -- A new novel by David Seth Michaels

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 21:03:00 +0000

By David Seth Michaels

Sunday. October 14. 4 pm. In this country, a day off for everyone. For me, it’s like any other day. First, a small tequilita from the freezer. And then, my book, my plastic chair under the flowering tree, and a cold bottle of beer with a piece of lime in it. A perfect day for the yard. A perfect day to read. A perfect day to be a lizard.

To no one’s particular surprise, when the bottle is empty, I find that I cannot keep my eyes open, the book becomes heavy in my arms and it sinks through the warm humidity into my lap. My eyes close slowly. The beautiful siesta I invited gently sneaks up on me. Initially I can still hear the birds, the soft clacking sound from the cocos, the hum of the town. These fade gently, and then a dream.

An elephant has escaped from its handlers and has run down the beach to escape the intense heat and to frolic in the ocean. It floats in the surf, blowing sea water through its trunk onto its back, enjoying the surf. On the shore, its handlers grow impatient for it to return. They yell at it, “Come bank, Sweetness, come back!” Sweetness, if that is truly her name, ignores them. She wallows in the cool water, she swims around in circles, she sprays sea water with her trunk.

“Sweetness,” they shout. “Come back.”

Evidently, she’ s not yet ready to return to land, to heat, to servitude, and to them. She ignores their shouts and continues her bath. The handlers become more impatient. And angry. One of them shouts at her and in frustration throws a coconut toward her. Sweetness apparently doesn’t care for this. At all. She trumpets loudly and swims slowly down the beach, farther away. The handlers run down the beach after her, kicking up sand.

Some of the sand hits me. It wakes me up. I expect to see the wide beach and the handlers and the escaped elephant basking defiantly in the turquoise water, but when I carefully prop open my right eye, there’s no ocean and no elephant. I’m in my yard.

And there are two sweaty people, people I don’t know, standing there, standing in my yard, near my chair. I reluctantly get both eyes open. I look at them. I know very well why they’re standing there.

“Excuse me,” the bearded one says in English. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I wonder if you could help us.”

I consider saying that I don’t speak English. This would have its benefits, but it will probably prolong their unwanted visit. They will pantomime to me. We will play charades. I consider telling them directly, please leave my yard. Instead, knowing this directness will seem unnecessarily unkind in a country where seeming politesse is so important, I say, “Yes?”

“We’re looking for someone,” he begins. “We’re looking for the curandero. And we wonder if you know where we could find him? If you’d tell us where we can find him.”

I knew it. Same as always. How many times, I wonder, am I going to have this conversation? How many people are going to show up with this very same question?

The question, I think, deserves a consistent answer. So I tell them my usual lie. “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are looking for.

Perhaps some of my neighbors could be of assistance to you, but I don’t know who that is.”

“Oh,” they both sigh. Crestfallen, they mumble gracias and wander off into the heat and humidity to continue their search for the curandero.

I return to the elephant. There are only Dream Elephants in this part of Quintana Roo. I have no idea what they are doing here. Or where they come from. Or why.

Writer David Seth Michaels, an attorney in Columbia County, New York, is the author of two novels, "Dream Antilles," and his new book, "Tulum," from which this excerpt is taken. "Tulum" is for sale at local bookstores by order, Barnes and Noble, Amazon, iUniverse. ebooks at BN and Amazn. He keeps a terrific blog at www. DreamAntilles.blogspot.com.

Will the Health Care Act Survive?

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 12:30:00 +0000

By Richard Kirsch

I woke up New Year’s morning with a nervous stomach. It was finally 2012, the year that I’d been talking about casually since people started asking me, “will the Affordable Care Act survive?” As I wrote in the epilogue to my new book, Fighting for Our Health: The Epic Battle to Make Health Care a Right in the United States, health reform has to jump two big hurdles in 2012 to survive. The first is the Supreme Court ruling on its constitutionality, with three days of oral arguments in March now just a few weeks away. The second, of course, is the election for President.

On the campaign trail in Iowa, Rick Santorum baldly revealed why the right is so intent on killing the promise of good health care for all: Santorum said it would make people “dependent” on the government. As I write in my book: “The right understands that if the Affordable Care Act is implemented, it will create a bond between the American people and government, just as Social Security and Medicare have done. The last thing that the corporate and ideological right want is for a new health care pillar to be added to the foundations of government social insurance.”

The battle over the Affordable Care Act needs to be understood in its historic context. While the legislation that passed was certainly compromised from an ideal law, it will for the first time – when its key measures are implemented in 2014 –establish a government responsibility to make decent health care affordable to almost everyone. Following a century of failure, during which the United States emerged as the only developed nation to guarantee health care, the passage of the ACA needs to be understood as a remarkable accomplishment.

That history weighed over the battle that began in 2008, when I helped found Health Care for America Now (HCAN), a coalition that as health care historian Paul Starr told me, was the first time that there was a major grassroots, field campaign to pass reform. Fighting for Our Health is the story of that campaign, starting from its early roots in 2003, when Yale professor Jacob Hacker and I separately developed a new policy approach, the public option. We each envisioned the public option as a way to bridge the gap between those who championed single-payer government health insurance and reforms based on expanding private health coverage. As I write: “It is impossible to overstate how important the idea of the public option was to creating the powerful unified coalition that became HCAN.”

In 2008, many of the largest multi-issue progressive organizations came together under a common set of principles to form HCAN. During the next two years, HCAN ran a $48 million coalition, grassroots and media campaign, with field partners organizing pressure on members of Congress and actions aimed at the health insurance industry in 44 states. Our strategy included turning Congressional supporters into champions, like Washington State’s Patty Murray, who met 11-year old Marcelas Owens at a rally of 5,000 in Seattle in May, 2009. That meeting with Owens, whose mother had died because she didn’t have health insurance, led Marcelas to the U.S. Senate, to become a target of Glenn Beck and finally to stand next to President Obama, wearing matching powder-blue ties, when he signed the ACA.

The story of how Marcelas Owens ended up at the White House is one of many that I tell in Fighting for Our Health, each aimed at capturing the drama and illuminating the strategy that drove us to victory. I describe:

How we organized small businesses in the districts of conservative Democrats, taking them on Main Street tours.

The biggest story missed by the press, how we beat the tea party attacks by turning out more people than they did at

Democratic town halls and rallies from mid-August through Labor Day in 2009.

How we thanked House Democrats who voted for the bill and spanked Democrats who voted against it in 2009, a key strategy in getting a majority of House members to vote for the final legislation in 2010.

The campaign we ran on TV and in the streets to get the message out, “If the insurance companies win, you lose.”

The tension with the White House, which tried to stop HCAN from defending a strong bill.

At the end of the day though, we were all on the same side, celebrating passage of legislation that – if it survives 2012 – will make affordable health care a right in the United States. To see that promise fulfilled, we’ll need the President, Congressional Democrats and activists to make it clear why the Affordable Care Act will be a huge step forward in creating a country that works for the 99%. We’ll need to remind the public that once the ACA is implemented in 2014, it will mean that losing your job, retiring early, or starting a small business won’t result in losing access to affordable health coverage. It won’t mean you could go medically bankrupt.

The ACA became law because of the passion of activists and Democratic elected officials for creating a more just America. We defeated the Republican part, the tea party, the U.S. Chamber of Commerce and the health insurance industry. In 2012, we need to do it again.

Activist Richard Kirsch led the progressive campaign Health Care for America Now, which helped to get the nation's Affordable Care Act passed. His new book, Fighting for Our Health, tells a fascinating tale about how the progressive coalition worked with groups all across the nation to pass the bill.

WARM UP: Writing in a Sunny Waterfall

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 16:56:00 +0000

NOTE TO READERS: Something quite amazing happened in my happiness class yesterday. I decided to try something new; like so many of my best ideas, the exercise came to me while I was meditating in the morning before class. When the students arrived, I asked them to freewrite for a few minutes, as I usually do, so that they could vent their thoughts and clear their minds before class started. Then I asked them to close their eyes, and I led them in this exercise I called "Writing in a Sunny Waterfall."

Before I started reading the words out loud, I was worried that it wouldn't work. I was afraid that when I finished, the students would say, "why did you make us do this boring thing?"

Something quite different happened.

When I finished reading, and looked up, each and every student in the class was sitting there in perfect stillness. There wasn't a sound in the room. Not a single student opened his or her eyes for almost 25 minutes. I was shocked. I kept looking at my watch thinking, should I just let them sit there? I did. I was astonished at the power of these simple words to relax a group of young people.

Finally I decided it was time to bring them back to the classroom. When I did, several of the students said they felt refreshed. One young woman said that she had never been able to meditate before, but that this exercise had helped her sink into a deep meditative state. I asked the students to write about what they felt. After a discussion, we decided as a class that we would try this exercise again. My husband thinks I should record the words and include them on the Happiness class blogsite. Maybe I will, so that other people can try it if they want to relax in a sunny waterfall.

Suddenly, we are all sitting in the sun, below a gigantic waterfall.

The water showers each of us in the most blissfully perfect temperature,

warm

warm

warm

water.

You look up and see the tiny little prisms of color in the water droplets as the sun passes through them.

You just close your eyes and sit there, letting the gloriously warm water fall on your head....

feeling it slip down your forehead...

over your eyelids...

onto your eyelashes...

your nose...

your lips...

your chin...

the back of your neck...

your shoulders....

down your arms and legs...

your hands and fingers and toes.

You just sit there, letting the water flow down, carrying away all of your stress.

You don't have to go anywhere.

You don't have to do anything.

You just sit there and

go limp.

The water pools at your feet and disappears.

You feel so relaxed that you smile.

If you were to look up, you would see the water sparkling in the sun.

You can feel the water,

the warmth of it, the sun's rays gently hitting the top of your head,

You just let the water drain every bit of stress away.

You just sit there in your own perfect waterfall, and all around you are the most beautiful flowers and trees.

You stare at the most beautiful flowers and trees. You

would swear that you were

in some sort of Paradise.

When you're ready,

write about what it looks and feels like

to sit there.

HOT OFF THE PRESS: FIGHTING FOR OUR HEALTH

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 14:14:00 +0000

Note to Readers: Health care advocate Richard Kirsch's book, FIGHTING FOR OUR HEALTH is not out officially until February 1st, but the blogs are already abuzz with some of what he's written. It turns out that one of President Obama's key aides, Jim Messina (Former Deputy Chief of Staff, he's now running the Prez' re-election campaign) tried to get Kirsch fired in 2009, because he feared that Kirsch was pushing too hard from the left for health care reform. It's a fascinating tale, and it's just one chapter in the book. TALKING POINTS MEMO RAN THIS AS A BANNER HEADLINE YESTERDAY:

Key Reform Ally Dishes On ‘Weak-Kneed’ White House Health Care Push

"In an encyclopedic new book that sheds fresh light on the defining fight of President Obama’s first term, one of the administration’s key health care reform allies recalls a thin-skinned, “weak-kneed” White House, strategically unwilling and temperamentally unable to face criticism from progressive reformers, whose toughest tactics were reserved for its natural allies.

Many of the revelations will be unsurprising to those who followed the year-long fight over health care reform closely. But they serve as a thorough reminder of the administration’s uneven strategy during the debate, including its horsetrading with private industry, and private dealing with supporters on the left — particularly those, like the author, who fought a bruising fight for a public health insurance option and lost.

The book is Fighting For Our Health, by Richard Kirsch, who directed the advocacy group Health Care for America Now during the push for reform. HCAN is a well financed umbrella group backed by scores of liberal groups, unions, and other reformers — making Kirsch a close witness to the entire saga. He confirms that the White House treated the public option like a bargaining chip with powerful industry players, and believes that when his group became most critical of the bill mid-way through the fight, that top White House aides sought to have him canned.

“The White House had negotiated a number of deals with the health industry, designed to win their support for reform, including agreeing to oppose a robust public option, which would have the greatest clout to control how much providers got paid,” writes Kirsch, largely confirming what has become an open secret in Washington.

Kirsch’s book is replete with similar stories."

TO READ THE REST OF TALKING POINTS MEMO'S POST, GO TO THE TPM SITE. Other blogs quickly followed suit, among them The Hill and FireDogLake. Kirsch's book is available for pre-order in paperback and for the Kindle on Amazon.com at FIGHTING FOR OUR HEALTH.

ONE TWO

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 12:26:00 +0000

Note to readers: In September, 2002, I was deeply immersed in chemotherapy treatment for Hodgkin's Disease. I endured the agony of this treatment by doing paper collages which made use of concrete objects. The poem "ONE TWO" emerged toward the end of the grueling treatment, when my body was completely ravaged. Until recently, I have not been able to look at the portfolio of artwork or the poems that accompany some of them.

ONE TWO

WHEN YOU
FACE THE
HARD EST
THING IN
YOUR LIFE
JUST RE
MEM BER
TWO WORDS:
ONE TWO
ONE TWO
ONE TWO
IF YOU
SHOULD FOR
GET THEM
THEN JUST
LIS TEN
LIS TEN
LIS TEN
TO THE
SLOW AND
QUI ET
THRUSH OF
YOUR HEART:
VOOM BOM
VOOM BOM
VOOM BOM
OR JUST
LIS TEN
TO THE
SLOW AND
STEAD Y
WAY YOU
BREATHE
IN OUT
IN OUT
IN OUT:

OR IF
YOU ARE
LUCK Y
AND YOU
CAN STILL
WALK THE
WALK THEN
WALK THE
WALK THAT
SOL DIERS
DO ONE
TWO ONE
TWO ONE
TWO YOU
WILL GET
TO THE
PLACE YOU
HAVE TO
GO SO
SLOW LY
SLOW LY
ONE FOOT
TWO FEET
ONE HEART
TWO BEAT
ONE BREATH
TWO BREATH
AND ON
THE WAY
YOU MAY
SAY WHY
OH WHY
DEAR GOD
DID YOU
MAKE THE
WORLD SO
SO PAIN
FULL WHY
OH WHY
DEAR GOD
MUST I
GO THROUGH
ONE TWO
ONE TWO
WHY OH
WHY IS
THE WORLD
SO NIGHT
SO DAY
SO LEFT
SO RIGHT
SO LOVE
SO HATE
SO BLACK
SO WHITE
SO LIFE
SO DEATH
SO HELL
SO WELL
SO HELL
HELL HELL
HELL HELL
AND ON
AND ON
THE WAY
YOU MAY
NOT GET
THE ANS
SWER BUT
YOU WILL
HAVE SOME
THING TO
THINK AS
YOU GO
FOR WARD
FOR WARD
FOR WARD
AND ONCE
YOU GET
THERE IN
THIS ONE
TWO WAY
SLOW LY
SLOW LY
SLOW LY
GO ING
ONE STEP
TWO STEP
YOU WILL
KNOW YOU
ARE A
SOL DIER
OF GREAT
FOR TUNE
SING ING
SING ING
ONE TWO
ONE TWO
ONE TWO
YOU WILL
KNOW IN
YOUR HEART
VOOM BOM
VOOM BOM
YOU CAN
BY GOD
GET THERE
GET THERE
GET THERE
DO THIS
THOUGH YOU
WILL SWEAR
SOME MO
MENTS YOU
CAN NOT
YOU CAN
YOU CAN
DO SOME
THING SOME
AB SO
LUTE LY
IM POSS
I BLE
THING THAT
YOU JUST
MUST DO.

September 21, 2002

COMPASSION

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 13:05:00 +0000

By Jan Marin Tramantano

I am a shiny purple ribbon
wound loosely around your legs,
I let you know I’m there,
dressed in silk, my touch so light
you mistake me for an excuse.

I live within you competing
with blinding yellow of fear
blood red of desire
thorny brown of loss.

I am a slip of purple
with little traction
easily lost to hard ambition
camouflaged by noise.

You hungrily search for me
when rife with loneliness.
I guide you to look up
at a sliver of moon, the flicker
of Capricorn in the night sky,
ascend my invisible bridge.

When you become still,
alone with your essence,
you will shift,
feel me graze you
become mine.

Jan Marin Tramontano is the author of two poetry chapbooks, Floating Islands and Woman Sitting in a Cafe and Other Poems of Paris. A third, Paternal Nocturne, (Finishing Line Press) will be released in late January. She also wrote a memoir about her father, I Am a Fortunate Man. Her debut novel, Standing on the Corner of Lost and Found, was published in September 2011. Her poetry, stories, book reviews, and interviews appear in numerous literary journals, magazines and newspapers. She belongs to the International Women's Writers Guild, served on the board and as program chair of the Hudson Valley Writers Guild and is a member of Poets House and the American Academy of Poets.

Our Stories are Such a Mystery and a Blessing!

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 15:14:00 +0000

By Claudia Ricci

Why do writers write novels? Because they love to write, because they have a story that's begging to be told, because they hold words to their hearts like glittering diamonds, because they have an itch that can only be scratched out in long silver sentences, because they want to celebrate life and love, because they have a question that nags and begs and pleads and refuses to go away, because they are immersed in a mystery that demands to be solved, because they need writing as much as they need breathing, because laying down words is like a powerful dream and an amazing drug, one that occasionally delivers aha AHA AHAHAHAHAHA moments that make you laugh and sing and chant and dance and jump up and down and hug yourself. Sometimes the discoveries are so absolutely jubilant and joy-filled that they go over the top and won't stop, like

today for example, when you finally finally finally finally after 17 long and torturous writing years finally finally see how the last chapters of the novel you have hated and loved and thrown away and dug out of the garbage and cursed and adored, when you finally see how the last part of the novel plays out.

At that moment, you feel like writing is a truly mystical and sacred thing, one that gives you a peek into the transcendent, one that explains how the word, how the very vibration of the words, are sacred things, and you understand why every religion has its BIBLE or KORAN, words spoken into sacred truth, how the Torah for example, is the very Tree of Life, and how writing is really and truly a great blessing and a privilege that we should never ever take for granted or deplore even on those horrible days when you can't write a flipping thing.

My own mystery is this thing I call

SISTER MYSTERIES

a book which you cannot pick up or put down, a 17 long year, gargantuan undertaking that felt so often like it would put me under, a marathon like no other I've ever had, an epic journey that I am still taking, a coming-to-consciousness about the very nature of reality, a binary back-and-forth which has finally become some kind of Unity of VOICE, a deep deep mystery that keeps unfolding, a story that gave birth to a nun in front of a mirror, a nun who in the words of her cousin slipped effortlessly into flaming flamenco garb, a nun who like me spent years in prison being punished, and then, just last month, she slipped out the door just LIKE

THAT, in one chapter, in plain old words, she went free taking me with her.

Today at my meditation table the mystery of it all and the last few chapters just exploded into my head like wild fireworks an explosion of light, light that is still burning in the candle that won't stop this morning, wax pouring out, light pouring too, just like that other morning in November 2010, when a candle burned mysteriously for hours and hours while I sat here and there in wonder and deep gratitude that this mystery -- of writing, of discovery, of love -- has been bestowed on me.

If I sound like I'm starting to come unglued, let me say that this is how it feels to be a writer at the end of a long long writing project, one that holds you in its clutches until you are released. The first time I wrote a novel this happened, one day I produced about a dozen journal pages when I figured out the ending, the ending came to me in a wild frenzy of brain activity, what feels and felt like a boundless discovery of ideas, your brain sizzles and pops and the words, like the wax of this candle burning, just won't stop.

One curious thing about this ending, it's all tied up with my ear ringing.

Very peculiar how it happened: a few weeks ago, just about the time that Sister Renata went out the door freeeeeeeeeeee, I woke up with my left ear ringing.

I kept hoping it would go away but it only kept getting worse. I opened Louise Hay's book, You Can Heal Your Life, and it said that ear ringing

(otherwise known as tinnitus) is in effect caused by a person's unwillingness to listen to an inner voice.

When I read that, I went, oh come on, please, I am constantly listening to my inner voice, I meditate every day, I do yoga, and I write and write and I am constantly listening to my inner voice.

But no.

I had to listen more closely. MUCH more closely.

Two weeks ago, my dear friend Peg and I sat down in my den to write, it was a Thursday, December 29th, we decided to write nothing but questions and at first it felt like I was picking at the hard icy surface of the pond outside the window.

I wrote a few questions down, and so did she, and then we read them aloud. Peg is my all-time best writing buddy who's read virtually every word of this million-word novel SISTER MYSTERIES (which she at one point renamed SISTER MISERIES). She has lived through the misery with me, always telling me to write the "true" story, always encouraging, never doubting.

That day in the den two weeks ago, Peg saw straight to the core of it what I was writing and said two things, "Claud I finally get it, this book has been a penance for you," and I realized that she was absolutely right, the book has been a kind of punishment for all these long years, one that so many times I wished would go away. The other thing she said was, "Claud, why is it that when you start writing about core connections between this story of the nun and the true story of your own life, and your illness, and the connection between your mom's illness and your own, why do you always always just stop?"

I had nothing to say in reply. I sat in the den and felt like I wanted to cry because I felt so frozen up inside and my ear was ringing and it was miserable.

The next day, I sat down, was not planning to write, I just opened the file of questions that I had written with Peg, and the next thing I knew I had written this Celebration of Freedom, I wrote for three hours, poured out 3,000 words, my head started exploding with connections between the book and my life, I wrote about my memories of being in a tiny prison -- a hospital crib -- and my mother coming to visit me and her catching cold and getting very sick and developing asthma and me feeling responsible, me feeling this huge guilt just like the nun, just like Sister Renata,

I have for all these years of writing, felt like I was being punished for a crime I didn't commit, like the story had to come out of my ribcage, like it was imprisoned there, and I didn't know this until the other day, but Denise, my energy person in Vermont, says that "our childhood memories are stored in our ribs."

Why do writers write novels? To do deep psychic work through words, to solve binaries, to resolve conflicts.

A writer writes to transcend the daily humdrum lives we lead. To peer deep into the pools of mystery that underlie the illusion that we share, called reality.

Writers write stories so that they can discover their deepest truths, truths that help propel them into a new consciousness, one that transcends. Readers read so that they too can peer into a higher spiritual realm, if only for a few minutes, a few hours.

For both reader and writer, our stories are a gift and such a blessing.

Love, Love, Love

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 13:57:00 +0000

By Kellie Meisl

I chose the word LOVE as my theme this year. I am very encouraged by this. I feel clever for choosing this word, how can I have a bad year if LOVE is my word?

I chose my first "theme word" for the new year two years ago after reading The Call, by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. In it she suggested we focus on a single word. She writes, “So ask yourself this: If I could say one word to the world, if I knew the world was listening attentively and would to the best of its ability follow the directive this word sent out, what would that word be?”

That year I chose the word "open". I was beginning the year by hosting a monthly dream circle and teaching classes on art and dreams at my municipal art gallery. I wanted to be open to receiving those who were meant to come my way, and be open to exploring ideas around building this practice.

The second year I chose the word "close", to remind myself I can have boundaries when necessary. I found while trying to remain open the year prior, I shared deeply and personally and sometimes felt tread upon by insensitive people when I did not expect it.

This year I chose the word love for my theme because I thought that by handling every encounter, every issue, every person that comes my way, from the point of view of love, I will just be in win-win situations all year long. But most of all I realized that I needed to give a particular person my love, a person I had been unkind to more often than I would like to recall, a person who I had trouble forgiving, a person who seemed worthy in theory, yet always turned up last on the list, hardly ever gotten to: me.

I read recently, that if you love yourself---that is take the time to reallylove yourself, no conditions, just love, always, you will end up giving love to others automatically. This sounds like a no-brainer, just love me, and the rest will follow. I'm in.

Here is how I envision this year of self love to go, I see myself visiting places, doing activities, being with people, wearing clothes, eating foods that make me feel good. I will be honest with myself about what I am feeling in each moment, as much as I can, and from these feelings I will derive the people, places and things that truly make me feel happy, energized, creative, joyful, content...this equates to self love to me. And I will not judge when I do or do not feel these positive feelings, just notice then proceed, or, if need be, stop. My "open" and "close" themes have helped me with my understanding of this as well.

Since having this love theme in place, magical and spontaneous things have started to happen already, to support my decision to love myself. The world has been listening attentively.

I went to the bookstore looking for a desk calendar, something I love to do in January when they are half-off. And what did I find buried, but a calendar of hearts? Fifty-two different hearts made from 'stuff'. For instance, the first one of the year was fashioned of party blowers, and mini champagne bottles and confetti, then photographed. Upon finding this I felt so sure my inner radar of love was working spot on. I quickly made my purchase then zipped to the car and opened it to find this little story: Page, the artist, makes a new heart each Monday, in honor and memory of the love of her life, Madalene. When she first met Madalene she would make Madalene a heart each Monday and leave it on her doorstep. Sadly, Madalene passed away of ovarian cancer the year they met, but Page still goes on making the hearts for Madalene.

In honor of this loving tradition, created by Page, and my love theme, I am going to make a heart every Monday this year too. I will feature each right here.

Today is Monday, and this is my first heart, and the best thing is that my first heart is on my birthday. :)

When we give our self permission to love our self, the world wraps us in a big ole hug and breathes a sigh of, "Thank you."

"You, yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection." Buddha

Writer and artist Kellie Meisl, of Pittsfield, MA, keeps a blog called WALK, where this piece appeared first. A visual artist, she works out of waking and night dreams to produce her marvelous paintings, one of which appears on the cover of the novel, Seeing Red. Kellie's piece on why failure can be a good thing appeared last week in MyStoryLives.

Ice is SO Nice

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 13:58:00 +0000

How nice it is

to watch

the way

the icy surface

of the pond

changes

day

after day

in winter.

Miraflores

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 16:22:00 +0000

By Camincha

I come down to the coast that has the seducing curves of my
negrita, who sings, "Tamales calientiiiiiitos!!!!!!!!" through
the streets of my city on saturday nights. And the voice
of my Inca with his eagle–beak nose, skin the color of mud.
My color. My Inca whistles at my door. Sharpens my knives and
scissors big and small.

I come down to the Coast. To blue, green eyes. Full bearded
Europeans. The café latte skin of my criollas and criollos. To
flat streets that roll to the ocean. To its white foam. To the heat
of its shade. The tears of its garüa. The corner of La Picaronera.
The callejon next door. The European chalet. The Gardens of
La Diagonal Ice cream from D'onofrio. The church across
Parque Central. The benches of Alameda Pardo. Sunday's
promenades. The British-Peruvian school, blue uniform, hat,
white shirt, red tie. Ferocious exams. Matinees at the Excelsior:
The cowboy and the girl.

I come down to the Coast. I take El Expresso to go to Lima, El Urbanito
to El Mercado Central, to La Tiendecita Blanca where our mothers
bought Crema Chantilly to decorate birthday cakes and still serves
butifarras, paltas rellenas, tamales, empanadas, humitas. Memories jump
through the intersection of Larco and Pardo, f'ive blocks in diameter,
with a rainbow of flowers in its center. I walk to Schell where my school,
San Jorge, used to be, then to Porta that saw my growing up years.
El Terrazas still a block away, looking forward to its next Baile de
Carnavales. Would you like to dance? sounds in my head. Dance? His
eyes full of adoration. EI Malecón gives me his cliffs that roll to the
Pacific while the scent of jasmine, dahlias, sweet peas, honeysuckle,
sweet narcissus, stalk my steps . . . .

Camincha is a pen name for a California-based writer. The San Francisco Bay Guardian praises her work saying: “Camincha frames the ordinary in a way that makes it extraordinary, and that is real talent.” Visit Camincha's website to read more of her writing!

Why It's Good to Fail

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 13:18:00 +0000

By Kellie Meisl

I have been thinking a lot about the subject of failing.

Last year brought some failures with it. But that is not necessarily a bad thing, in fact some of the failures have turned out to be good.

I have come to realize that sometimes by just going with the flow, letting things run their course instead of trying to be in control, a greater plan unfolds. When I can allow things to just happen without judgment or panic I can focus more on being on course as opposed to steering furiously down a path that probaby isn't going to make things a whole lot better anyway.

Sometimes what makes things better is being the best me, right where I am planted, as opposed to seeking loftier ground when I am uncertain. I liken this to building a house; if you don't have a strong foundation, then the building you put upon it will be unstable.

It is futile to fight failure. Failure teaches us some of the truest lessons. It knocks down our defenses, causes us to reflect and take inventory of what is important.

We can't really know ourselves until we decide just to be with our true selves -- failures and all -- no covering up. Covers are masks. Failures bring us to the truest places; the vulnerability of failing awakens us from a state of being on auto pilot.

Sometimes things that we think are failures turn out to be our greatest gifts.

Case in point: me dealing with my son's middle school years. From a parenting point of view these middle school years have been a huge challenge. In fact, on any given day, I can honestly say they have sucked.

I have drained my battery many times trying to navigate a course that definitely has an undercurrent that swamps me. Many days I would think I was preventing my son's failure as I read the daily computer-generated reports of his missed assignments. I would then write the proper follow- up emails to teachers, then schedule meetings, trying to share my point of view as an educator turned parent, desperate to come up with some sort of plan to keep my son on track, despite his major organizational issues.

But I was one person in a system that was already operating according to a finely-tuned plan. Deadlines were deadlines, test scores were test scores, and there were no exceptions made.

Performing these tasks took so much energy, brought so much stress that it has literally made me sick. I short-cirucited. I was placed on proton pump inhibitors (acid reflux medication) for three months to heal a bout of gastritis.

I blamed coffee, my doctor blamed 'middle school.' She listened to me spontaneously unload school stories as if they were just unimportant side notes, while at my visit to address weeks of nausea. She told me that this stress was the direct cause of the acid increase in the gut.

I took the reflux medicine home, read the slew of disturbing side effects, took them anyway, and set about to heal. After three days of worse gastric disturbances, and with a holiday party to attend, I decided not to take one the next day, vowing to return to them the following. But I did something different that day too; I listened to my gut, quite literally. I ate what made me feel good, drank what felt right and by the next morning I was feeling better. This happened again the following day so I didn't medicate that day either. Now almost a week later I am feeling better than ever, without the medicine.

You know what else my gut told me? It told me to give in to the failure, failure to control my son's destiny. Let him fail if he needs to, because it may be a necessary lesson for him. He needs to find his own way, I heard my gut say.

But that's when my failure became my success. Because now I am no longer drinking acidic coffee the first thing in the morning, I have returned to the gluten-free diet that keeps me healthy and as I walk daily I listen. I listen to myself. And I hear myself say, "Let go, you are on the right course, just stay with it and love yourself along the way. The rest will fall into place."

You know what? Releasing the pressure of fighting the inevitable, the necessary, has freed me up to be a far better mother. Who can live under the stress of going against the grain day in day out? And as if to prove my point, my dear friend, who has been following my every twist and turn, with the support of a saint and the insights of a sage, called me a few mornings ago to tell me about this dream she had of me:

She awakens within her dream, startled, looking out the window of her bedroom onto the (actual) river that runs along her home, she sees me on the water. I am at the edge of the rushing waterfall in a tan mini-van, getting ready to go over. We make eye contact and she stares at me in disbelief as I fly down the massively flowing fall. When I get to the bottom, I look up at her and smile, pumping my fist as if to say, "I made it, and I meant to do that."

Writer and artist Kellie Meisl, of Pittsfield, MA, keeps a blog called WALK; this piece appeared first there. A visual artist, she works out of waking and night dreams to produce her marvelous paintings, one of which appears on the cover of the novel, Seeing Red.

BERKSHIRE WEEKEND WRITER'S RETREAT -- New prices!

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 19:26:00 +0000

BERKSHIRE WEEKEND WRITER'S RETREAT

February 24th -26th, TUITION ADJUSTMENT!!

Spend a weekend by a cozy fire in a gorgeous Berkshire County inn, learning about writing from two well-seasoned fiction writers who are also very experienced college-writing teachers!! Please join us for a host of writing exercises to help recharge -- or launch -- your fiction writing. We are teaching a fabulous workshop that we are calling Writer's Bloc at the very quaint Richmond Inn in Richmond, MA.

NEW PRICES:

$450 includes all sessions and meals

$650 includes weekend retreat and two night's lodging at the elegant Richmond Inn in Richmond, Massachusetts

Application deadline extended to January 16, 2012

Stars Fall From the Sky

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 11:29:00 +0000

By Kyle Easton

If you stand before me when

Time stops and the stars fall from the sky

And darkness begins to overtake the earth

And glittering stardust paints the blackness above

I will look at you and drink you deep

And you will make me brave

I will hold you close and stroke your hair

I will shut my eyes and will not care

If creation fades and God does not appear

I’ll hold you close, even as we melt away

And I’ll make you brave, so do not fear

As we stand upon the darkening earth

Under the thick black blanket of the sky

Displaying powdered remnants of golden stars

Everything we know will fade away

All that we have ever seen or touched

Evaporating, disappearing around us into the blackness

Leaving only the ephemeral dust of memories

Quickly, silently, permanently vanishing

Into the blackness waiting at the end of time.

Still, we don’t allow our souls to be darkened by fear

We keep our eyes shut now, there is nothing more to see

We do not think forwards or backwards

We have been dreaming, though we hardly knew it

And now we begin to awaken

Something within us burned so bright

That as everything else fell way, it remained

As the stars fell, and the earth crumbled, and the dream faded

Only love remains, burning fresh and bright

Piercing the darkness of endless night

And we look directly into one another

And in so doing, we can not help but become one

And so I become you, and in so becoming

Become more fully myself

And in the black nothingness of space

One small star will remain burning bright

And it will not mind the barren surroundings

Because it will have no cause to look outward

But will only exist within itself, and for itself

Where all is love, and all is bright

Where the past is neither past nor forgotten

And the future is neither here nor ignored

Where every moment burns so fresh and bright

That it burns past the end of time

So stand with me, my love, as time and creation stop

And I will love you

perfectly.

Writer Kyle Easton was born and raised in upstate New York, where he still lives. He attended Bates College.

Happy 2012!!

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 11:18:00 +0000

By Callen T. Dalton

All of a moment is

The Universe

is all of a moment

Callen T. Dalton is a student at the University at Albany, State University of New York. The photo here is by Markku Verkasalo, a photographer in Helsinki, Finland. More of his work can be seen at Blipfoto.com/Akkuv

Surviving New Year's -- and the Hood of a Car

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 13:16:00 +0000

By Dilson Hernandez

New Year’s is supposed to be a time when family and close friends get together and drink way more alcohol than their bodies can withstand and end up with a crazy story to tell in the morning.

Without one trace of alcohol in our bodies, my maniacal cousins and I still managed to find a way to make an interesting story. It was New Year's 2007 and my family was gathered in my grandmother’s apartment on 139^th street in Manhattan.

The apartment was small. Every time another person walked in the door I could have sworn the white walls were caving in on me like some kind of Indiana Jones movie.

The garbage was piled up on the floor like a dumpster. The kids were running around like a bunch of little crazies and the adults were drinking beer in the living room like a bunch of alcoholics. The little hand on the clock had just hit 12:00 am on the dot and the whole family did the usual and unnecessary hugs and handshakes. I remember telling my cousins “this is gonna to be a good year! I feel it!”

I was really excited about it. My nerves were jumping and I wanted to do something memorable. Do you know the feeling when you are overly excited and feel like doing something memorable but it turns out not to be memorable but really really stupid?

Well if you don’t then hearing this next part might come off as a surprise and a “What the f-- was he thinking?” moment.

I was so excited that, like a dumbass, I decided to run out into the street while lifting my shirt up yelling out “2007!!!” like some kind of a psychopath. I remember running down the steps in excitement. The whole world moved in slow motion as I was about to run across the street. As I lifted my shirt I felt the cold breeze pass over my stomach. I felt untouchable, like nothing in this world could stop me…unless it was an eager person driving behind the wheel of a car.

And that’s exactly what stopped me, like an angry wife catching her husband cheating or like a robber being tripped up during his escape. That’s what stopped me. A car!

As I approached the middle of the street a car came crashing into me and lifted me off the ground. As the grill of the car struck the left side of my thigh, my whole body was lifted up by the spirit of God and I was dropped like a sack of potatoes on top of the car.

All I heard was my cousins saying “OH SHIT!” as they stared at me in astonishment.

Miraculously I didn’t get hurt. I When I got up from the car I tried apologizing to the driver, who was now cursing at me like a madman. He drove away, rushing maybe because he was late to his New Year’s party or something. I don’t know and I don’t really care. This was the same guy who had just run me over with his car!

After this catastrophic event, I just dusted myself off and walked normally back to the other side of the block to my cousins, who were now laughing at me. I know…what assholes.

I think that they were just scared shitless and now all they could do was laugh at my stupidity.

I'm sure if the car had hit me and my body had done like 50 flips in the air they wouldn’t have been laughing.

Writer Dilson Hernandez, who grew up in Manhattan, has just completed his first semester in college at the University at Albany, State University of New York.

Sundays With Charlie, Part Three

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 12:14:00 +0000

By Dr. Mel Waldman

This is part three in a series called "Sundays With Charlie, the Funniest Man on the Planet." Part one in the series ran on December 7, 2011 and Part two ran on December 15th. The photos that accompany this piece are by MARKKU VERKASALO, a photographer in Helsinki, Finland. More of Verkasalo's marvelous photography can be viewed at Blipfoto.com and on MyStoryLives.

During my visit, Charlie often cried out: “Help me! Help me! Don’t leave! Don’t leave!” Charlie fears abandonment.

He also shouted: “Helen! Helen! Helen!” Charlie is extremely dependent on Helen.

When I left late at night, I reassured Charlie I would be back. “Charlie, as long as I’m alive, you’re stuck with me!”

In my opinion, Charlie is neither in Hell or Heaven. He’s in Purgatory, trying to find the exit to Heaven. I think he used to be in

Hell, when he was on a respirator and almost totally immobilized. I imagine his sudden regression and loss of functioning shocked his sense of well being and his sacred identity. He probably experienced overwhelming pain. But now, he’s struggling.

I sense his will to live. He’s alive only because of the immense sacrifices of Helen and Gladys.

Had Helen and Gladys sent him into a nursing home, he would have died. I used to be a consulting therapist for various nursing homes. Even the best nursing homes are hellholes. Patients are often abandoned and neglected by staff. And those who act out may be punished and abused. Although I’ve worked with devoted nurses and social workers, they often worked alongside frustrated and angry workers. Charlie would not have survived in a nursing home. And who knows what happens on the night shifts?

My reunion with Charlie was a play in three acts, The Light, The Darkness, and The Light.

In the beginning, I experienced a cornucopia of joy. During the interludes, when I spoke with Helen and Gladys privately, I felt enormous sadness and loss. The final hours I spent with Charlie, especially in his bedroom, were filled with joy and uproarious laughter.

Charlie’s long-term memory seems intact. We watched the end of "The Maltese Falcon." I asked him if the actress speaking to Humphrey Bogart was Myrna Loy.

“No, that’s Mary Astor.”

And he was absolutely correct.

Charlie’s short-term memory seemed impaired. I pray his dementia will progress slowly.

The funniest moment of my visit occurred in Charlie’s bedroom. We weren’t reminiscing about the old days and Charlie wasn’t joking around. I sat in a chair next to him near the window. He lay in his hospital-bed. I happened to look up at the wall near the door and the ceiling. Adjacent to the ceiling loomed a mammoth picture of Charlie. A young and smiling Charlie looked down at the bedridden Charlie.

“Charlie, who gave you that huge picture?”

“When Merrill Lynch moved to New Jersey, I got that picture as a gift.”

“You look terrific.”

“Thanks.”

I guffawed. And then I laughed uncontrollably, endlessly.

“Charlie, you still have a big ego, don’t you?”

He cackled. Then he joined me in a long, boisterous laugh.

Helen drove me home. She told me the best days for her to facilitate my visits with Charlie were on the weekends. Right now, it looks like I’ll be seeing Charlie on Sundays. It’s a bittersweet journey for all of us. But as I told Charlie, he’s stuck with me to the very end. You see, Charles Freundlich is my best friend, my brother, and the funniest man on the planet.

Writer Mel Waldman is a psychologist, poet, writer, and artist. His stories have appeared in dozens of magazines including HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, ESPIONAGE, THE SAINT, and AUDIENCE. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. He is the author of 11 books. His most recent book, I AM A JEW, is a collection of essays, memoir, short stories, poems, and plays about his exploration of his Jewish identity. He has sold a series of short stories to the British publisher of POSTSCRIPTS, including literary mysteries, stories of suspense, and horror. These stories will tentatively be published in 2012 and 2013. He is currently working on a novel inspired by Freud’s case studies. His email address is mwaldman18@earthlink.net.

Two Grandmothers and Two Different Stories

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 14:52:00 +0000

By Judith England

I was one of those lucky children who had two grandmothers around through my growing up and many years beyond.

They both loved my brothers and me – no doubt of that. But they were about as different from one another as two people could be, especially in the way that they told the stories about their lives.

One reminded us many times how she had been sent to live with an aunt when she was a young girl. Although I was never quite clear why this was so, it wasn’t a hardship for her. On the contrary, her Aunt Sara was a wealthy, generous woman who doted on her. Circumstances changed, Grandma’s mother passed away, and she was needed at home to care for her younger brothers. Reluctant to leave the comforts of her adopted home, Grandma’s Dad dangled an incentive for her to return. “Come home,” he said, “and I’ll buy you a pair of diamond earrings.” She did, taking her place as surrogate Mom, with all the work that entailed. But the earrings never came.

In telling the story, even into her 80s, it was clear that Grandma felt that she had been duped; trading luxury for labor, and a promise never kept.

Then there was my other grandmother.

She had become family caretaker as a young woman also. Her beloved father died young, and her mother would hide herself away for weeks at a time wrapped up in troubles with “the drink” and perhaps a broken heart. Her brothers needed her.

She buried two husbands. One died in an accident two short weeks after my father was born, the second succumbed to complications of a ruptured appendix. She raised two sons alone, working as a switchboard operator.

You would never know from her actions how hard her life had been. Nor did she share these stories often.

For her, that was “then,” and life was definitely “now.”

Every year when the holidays come around thoughts center on family – those that are here, and those that are gone. We learn to negotiate the ups and down of life in large measure from the examples that set.

Sometimes that insidious feeling we call “regret” also rears its head. There’s the temptation to think about the could have, would have, should have, if only we might rewrite the story of our lives.

Maybe it’s something big like the job opportunity we didn’t take, the trip postponed, the child we didn’t have. Often it’s less earth-shattering like a word not spoke, or spoken in haste, or even leaving the turkey in the oven too long.

With another Christmas behind us, and a New Year about to begin, I have a few thoughts about regrets that have kept me moving in a direction that works for me:

Regret keeps us tied to the past – Unlike it’s second-cousin “learning from experience”, regret offers no room for change, for growth. We are stuck with the half-empty glass. The script is finished with no hope of revision.

Regret is self-perpetuating – Every time we think about a regret our body responds by generating the same misery we felt the first time. The event is long past, but the negativity continues

Regret is self-defeating – By locking in on unhappiness that things “might have been different if only…..” we limit the possibility of more creative solutions for the future.

Regret is other directed – A lot of blaming can go along with regret. Blaming gives the power to others. Taking ownership of our actions and choices places the power back where it belongs.

No one has a crystal ball that allows them to make perfect decisions – only a heart and mind that might reveal the “best possible” decision for them under the circumstances. It’s about playing the cards we’ve been dealt, perhaps taking a few risks from time to time, and accepting that we’ve done the best we could.

And maybe, just maybe, it might be about buying a pair of diamond earrings for yourself.

With wishes for peace in the New Year!

Writer Judith England is a yoga instructor and massage therapist practicing in Albany, New York. This piece appeared first on her Albany Times Union Holistic Health blog. She can be reached by email at yogajudi@aol.com.

Holiday Season in New York City

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 12:32:00 +0000

Wishing you a happy holiday season, no matter where you are!

The World is Here to Change Us

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 15:36:00 +0000

By Karen Beetle

"We are not here to change the world, the world is here to change us.”

--Shantideva, 8th century Indian Buddhist scholar

I read these words late last week, and they echo in my mind as I walk and work and eat. These words point to a chronic tension between how we want the world to be and what our experience is telling us about the world we live in. In learning meditation, we begin to discover the profound story-telling capacity of the mind. As a meaning maker and interpreter, our brain is constantly presenting reality to us – but that reality is highly conditioned by our previous experience and our habitual mental patterns of thought. Several years ago, I had a client walk into my office and sit down. Before I could say anything, She said. “I had no new thoughts. All week, I had no new thoughts.”

As we turn toward mental chatter in our meditation practice – it is often laughable how routine and unexpansive our everyday thoughts are. We can easily go through a whole week with no new thoughts.

Without awareness, our thought play a huge role in defining our experience. We are caught in the constant chatter and believe or half believe the content of our thinking. Meditation allows us to turn toward the direct experience of our days - our thoughts, feelings and sensations. This allows us to investigate the story line. We see how thoughts and feelings create impressions that can easily be crafted into fiction. The stories we tell about ourselves, other people, and life itself actually spin us further and further away from the world we live in. And this isn’t a neutral or accidental direction for our human mind to go – it is part of a fundamental strategy for self-protection in which we convince ourselves that our view is right. We place ourselves at the center of our own universe – and dig in our heels. Shantideva isn’t asking us not to believe in our capacity to make change in the world. He is saying, if you dig in your heels, you place yourself outside of the influence of life and you actually harden yourself against life. We all have the capacity to let life come closer to us than that.

Rodney Smith writes in Tricycle (Winter 2011), “To abide in awareness without asserting our need to control what is arising suggests a complete restructuring of our view and intention…When we attempt to force or influence reality, we are refusing to be affected by it. We have opted out of changing ourselves, investing our energy in the course of our desire. The sense of self remains fully empowered when it decides how the world must change to meet its needs, and nothing can get through to modify the mind.” When we harden against our experience, instead of softening in the face of it, life retreats from our grasp.

By accepting that the world changes us, we can align ourselves more directly with our true talents and capacities. We see more clearly where opportunities are, and the capacities of those around us come into view. We have more accuracy in our perceptions. The stories we tell are lighter and more spacious. We believe ourselves less and trust our direct perceptions more. We come into relationship with what we can and can’t change in the world and how to walk more effectively toward that which enlivens us.

During this holiday season, we are often alerted to the stories we tell about ourselves and the people in our lives. Pause as you attend family events, stay close to your direct experience. Notice the stories that are forming in your mind. Breathe and return to your direct perceptions. Look for what nourishes you in the environment. Feel your feet on the ground. Look up at the sky. Allow life to soften you and those around you. May you have a happy and peaceful holiday time.

Karen Beetle is a therapist and mindfulness teacher practicing in Albany, New York. Her next mindfulness meditation class begins in January. You can reach her at kabeetle@aol.com or 518-424-7516. This post appears today on the Albany Times Union's Holistic Health blog, a blog well worth visiting and bookmarking!

Chapter 52, SISTER MYSTERIES: "Out the Door...I am Free!"

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 15:50:00 +0000

Note: Sister Mysteries is an experimental on-line novel constructed as a blog. The novel takes place in the golden hills of California and tells the story of a nun, Sister Renata, who was falsely convicted of murdering her cousin Antonie in 1883. Renata was scheduled to hang, but in the last chapter she figured out, finally, how to escape. Now she is a fugitive, a nun on the run.

By Claudia Ricci

DIARY ENTRY

stopping now out of breath...

I walked out the door.

I walked out that door.

hand...fingers...trembling...hard writing...

write...

left ankle so sore...where the chain cut in before never healed...

sun lowering...a couple of hours to go before it sets...

what happens after dark...

look up, madrone, deep red... trying to take in what happened? What happened?

I will be sleeping under some tree, stars tonight. Air warm sweet, dry grass, golden hillsides. Sky bright bright blue

frightened... thrilled excited. Trembling now, feeling tears...because I am finally finally...

free.

Nothing it was nothing. Escape? All I had to do was lift up off of Kitty's sofa and take the cloth satchel I packed -- canteen journal biscuits cheese apples.

Heart slamming, walked up to the door turned lock and then, opened... the door. Morning air cool misty so fragrant and there I was top of the stairs with the world waiting.

Tears now. Tears...

so careful down stairs one by one see inside Kitty's cafe. Nobody. No sound. Bean a liquored heap at the bottom. Just lying there snoring. Arm with the bottle and then...I saw his jacket thrown to the side. I took it. I stole Bean's jacket. And kept walking. Fast.

With my heart practically dancing in my throat, sweat sprouting, I just kept walking forward. Thinking for sure, someone bound to come running behind me. Someone sure to come running up guns blazing yelling STOP!!!! STOP!!!!

But no.

I was free.

I am free.

Who knows for how long. But for now, I am free.

A nun, running. My face will be plastered on posters everywhere before the day is out. Must disguise. Bean's jacket falls below my knees.

Must keep walking now, heading through golden hills, trees. Redwood and madrone. Oak.

Thinking of Teresa now, I never said a word never spoke once to her of the plan, now she can be honest saying she had no idea what I was thinking. What I am doing.

What I am doing?

No idea. Where I am going?

Beyond here. Beyond the old life.

To whatever awaits me. Must not think now. Must go forward, now. Now.

Move now. Go!

Fantastic Photos From Finland

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Sat, 17 Dec 2011 19:31:00 +0000

PHOTOS BY MARKKU VERKASALO, from Finland

Every once in a while when I'm perusing Blipfoto, a wonderful day-by-day posting website for photographers, I come across a photographer whose work just takes my breath away.

This happened the other day with these photos by Markku Verkasalo, who makes his home in Finland's capital city, Helsinki, where he works. He spends weekends in the countryside about 75 miles from Helsinki.

I was so taken by the photos that Verkasalo recently posted on Blipfoto -- all of them taken just in the first few days of December -- that I emailed and asked him if I could run a few in the blog.

He kindly agreed, and told me the following information about his life and photography: He is a university lecturer and researcher who rides his bike five miles in each direction to work

every day. He says that he uses photography to keep his life "fresh." "I always carry my camera, ready to shoot, in an army belt on my hips. I try to photograph intuitively. If I see something interesting I stop my bike, shoot, and only afterwards do I look to see if it was interesting. Often, after photographing my interest, I turn 180 degrees and take some more shots."

One day in the countryside he photographed at a lake, turned, and found a field, where he took some more photos. Later, after "post processing, he found that the field was most appealing:

http://www.blipfoto.com/entry/1508894

He uses Adobe Bridge, a photoshopping program, to create paintings with his photographs. He works intuitively and lets his mood dictate the way the photos emerge.

Amazing.

Sky High

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 23:54:00 +0000

need

to explain

why I am in love with the sky.

It's rather clear and blue and at other

times, it is quite beyond my words.

At times the sky

has its own lines

and language I cannot translate except

in my heart.

At times, it changes so fast,

the sky,

I cannot stop snapping photos.

At those moments, I am very grateful for the sky

and also grateful for

digital photography.

Sundays With Charlie -- Part Two

noreply@blogger.com (Claudia R) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 12:41:00 +0000

By Mel Waldman

Note: This is part two of a three-part series called "Sundays With Charlie, The Funniest Man on the Planet." Read Part One.

On Sunday, November 27, 2011, I visited Charlie at his Crown Heights home, the apartment where Bobby Fischer had lived in his childhood, now the secret hiding place of the funniest man on the planet.

His granddaughter Helen, a highly competent-take-charge-no-nonsense woman of 31, picked me up and drove me to Charlie’s place. She warned me that Charlie looked different and sometimes sputtered foul language. On the other hand, she pointed out that Charlie had made significant progress, coming back from the dead.

“We thought he was going to die,” she said.

“Charlie’s a fighter,” I said. “A survivor.”

“Yes. But in the beginning, when he became violent, we didn’t know what was happening.”

“Charlie’s not a violent man. The violence is a dark byproduct of the illness. My father suffered from Alzheimer’s. The dementia caused him to have violent episodes. But when I took care of him and set strict limits, he calmed down. I strongly believe that Charlie’s dementia is the cause of these episodes.”

“Yes, we know now. I fired the first primary care physician who overmedicated him. He made Charlie into a zombie. My grandfather could have suffocated from the potentially lethal cocktail he took. If he had remained under this doctor’s care, he’d be dead today. And when Charlie gets agitated, I calm him down.”

“You saved his life, Helen.”

“Charlie raised me. I’d do anything for my grandfather.”

With Helen as my guide, I climbed the rickety stairs to the 4th floor. Mythological images of Charon taking me across the River Styx to Hades rushed across my mind, and suddenly, I felt swept away into a surreal universe.

Was I strong enough to enter my dear friend’s dark reality? Of course, I was, for he was Charlie, my lifelong friend, a man I loved like a brother. I knew Charlie had lost over 100 pounds. Did he look like a Holocaust victim? I didn’t know. But it didn’t matter. And certainly, as a therapist, I’ve worked with patients with HIV, AIDS, cancer, and other life threatening diseases. I never walked away from a patient. So why wouldn’t I be there for my buddy?

And so I entered a bittersweet dreamscape, crossing the threshold into Charlie’s world. The first few seconds when I saw Charlie, I was filled with an overwhelming joy, even ecstasy. Charlie seemed joyous too. Indeed, Helen and Gladys told me Charlie had been flooded with tempestuous waves of elation and anticipation. The day before my arrival, Helen and Gladys frequently reassured him that I was coming. Our pending reunion had launched him into a stormy sea of contradictory and conflicting emotions.

I too experienced a gamut of powerful, chaotic emotions before our reunion, during, and after our rendezvous. Yet our new beginning started with joy.
Later, the darker emotions emerged; sadness, loss, many losses, fear, anguish, rage, uncertainty, and bewilderment.
The first few hours seemed dreamlike, mini-episodes of Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone. But as I adjusted to Charlie’s new world, I rediscovered our strong, fierce, and gentle friendship.

The old Charlie I knew was a super-responsible man who took care of his family. As previously mentioned, Charlie and Gladys have been married for more than fifty years. Charlie’s an antediluvian man, a dinosaur in the most beautiful sense of the word. He worked for the same company for many years. On weekends, he often got gigs as a drummer.

A Renaissance man, he loved knowledge, technology, gadgets, especially computers, cultural activities, including his visits to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and all subjects strange and bizarre. And of course, he loved comedy.

The new Charlie is home-bound with two aides on 12-hour shifts. Most of his care is divided between Helen and Gladys. My buddy requires help in getting out of and into his hospital bed, as well as getting into and out of his wheelchair. He needs help moving into a more comfortable position on his bed.

He wears a diaper for he has lost control of moving his bowels and urinating. Someone has to clean and wash his body and change his diaper. Often, his devoted granddaughter has this task. His wife is unable to do this.

His hands are constantly clenched. He looks like a boxer posed to fight. But in actuality, his clenched hands cause much pain. Yet when he tries to open them, he also experiences a lot of pain. In general, his body is constricted. I do not know the cause of these constrictions. Possibly, they are related to his diabetes.

Because of Charlie’s physical limitations, he can no longer work on his computer. He used to spend 12 or more hours on the computer, one of his favorite toys.

A tube is attached to a hole in his stomach. He receives his medications and fluids through this tube. He eats baby food.

It hit me then, that suddenly my dear friend Charlie's life circumstances were distinctly not funny, not funny at all.

STAY TUNED FOR PART THREE COMING SOON!!!!

Writer Mel Waldman is a psychologist, poet, writer, and artist. His stories have appeared in dozens of magazines including HARDBOILED DETECTIVE, ESPIONAGE, THE SAINT, and AUDIENCE. He is a past winner of the literary GRADIVA AWARD in Psychoanalysis and was nominated for a PUSHCART PRIZE in literature. He is the author of 11 books. His most recent book, I AM A JEW, is a collection of essays, memoir, short stories, poems, and plays about his exploration of his Jewish identity. He has sold a series of short stories to the British publisher of POSTSCRIPTS, including literary mysteries, stories of suspense, and horror. These stories will tentatively be published in 2012 and 2013. He is currently working on a novel inspired by Freud’s case studies. His email address is mwaldman18@earthlink.net.