Today is Groundhog Day, and apparently Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow this morning, portending six more weeks of winter. I don’t feel qualified to comment on that, since it has been 80 degrees this week here in Austin. However, I do have some thoughts related to the movie of the same name. I passed on this movie when it was initially released, and only recently saw it on television.

Groundhog Day, starring Bill Murray, is a 1993 movie about a reporter who reluctantly travels to Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, to cover the annual festivities. During the visit, the reporter somehow becomes stuck in time, awakening each morning doomed to repeat Groundhog Day over and over. The events of each day are essentially the same, subject only to minimal modifications in response to actions taken by Murray’s character. The townspeople and his crew are not aware of the cycle; only Murray dreads each morning.

At first, the reporter is confused and overwhelmed, trying to make sense of the situation. Then his inborn cynicism surfaces, and he takes advantage of the people around him and the fact they will not remember any of his bad actions. He is drawn to Rita, a member of his crew, but she distrusts him and resists his advances. He becomes increasingly angry and then depressed, and he even commits suicide. But the next morning, he hears his alarm, and the cycle continues.

Eventually, he gives up. He stops fighting the situation and decides to use his time productively. He makes friends with the townspeople, learns to play the piano, speak French, and carve ice sculpture. Knowing exactly what problems the townspeople will face, he begins to help them. He starts having fun. Once he has completely surrendered, Rita sees his positive qualities and spends the night with him. The spell is broken.

The movie never explains why Murray’s character got stuck, and it really doesn’t matter. Murray is Everyman and Everywoman. Faced with challenging circumstances, we instinctively resist and struggle. We get angry, and we try to manipulate the world around us. When that doesn’t work, we sometimes fall into despair.

But only one response really creates the change we desire. That response is to surrender to what is, to be of service, and to decide to experience the most joy possible in every moment. What we resist persists, but what we release can float away from us. Surrender, service, and living in joy remove us from the power struggle with what is, and releases the energy that creates space for what we really want to come into our lives.

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Today is World AIDS Day, commemorating the 34 million living people with AIDS, and the nearly 30 million who have died. The numbers are so big they’re hard to take in. But for me, as for so very many others all over the world, AIDS is a personal story.

One of those 30 million was my cousin, James Cameron Lambert. Jim and I were born the same year, and I guess in my mind, I always took for granted that we’d die at the same time. Things didn’t work out that way, however.

Jimmie and I spent summers together. He was my best friend. As the eldest children, we teamed up to torment our younger siblings. When we played house, we were the parents, and we made them be the babies, and bossed them around. We often sat up with a flashlight under the sheets, talking late into the night. When I got my first bra, Jimmie was the person I rushed home to tell.

It took a while for Jimmie to figure out his life and his sexuality. He liked women, and at one point was engaged. As part of his journey of self-exploration, he made it out to San Francisco, and he ended up living in Oakland.

Jimmie was smart, funny, and passionate. Like most of the men in our family, he was a big, handsome guy, with a lot of personal charisma. He worked in Berkeley in a psychiatric hospital, on a locked adolescent ward. I loved visiting him there and watching him work with the kids. He cared for his patients like a mother, but he could calm them and set limits for them with just a few words in his deep voice.

Jimmie introduced me to sushi, and green tea ice cream. To celebrate the Harmonic Convergence, we got up in the middle of the night, wrapped my toddler in a blanket, and drove up near the top of Mt.Tamalpais. With our backs to the Pacific, we watched the sun break through the clouds below us. It was magical.

Jim and his partner, K.C., built an aviary in their hilly back yard, and raised parrots. From him, I learned that parrots have the emotional life and intellect of 3-year-old children. He explained to me the importance of placing the birds he sold with a permanent family, so they would not face the trauma of separation and displacement.

When men in their community began succumbing to AIDS, Jimmie and K.C. lost many friends. By the early 1990s, an estimated eighty percent of gay men in the Bay Area were HIV positive. When medical researchers asked for subjects for a study, Jimmie and K.C. volunteered. They learned they were both infected with the virus.

A few months later, Jimmie came to Austin. He took me to lunch in a crowded restaurant. He said he had something to tell me, and I was absolutely not to fall apart when he did. He had enough to deal with without having to take care of my feelings. And I was not to tell anyone else. His mother had plenty of grief ahead of her, and he didn’t want her spending months or years anticipating what was to come. He was gentle with me, but firm, in much the same way I’d seen him with his young patients.

In less than a year, Jimmie’s condition had deteriorated into full-blown AIDS. He died a short time before his 45th birthday, held in the arms of his lover and his dad, my uncle. It was just three years before the widespread implementation of the retroviral drugs that have since saved so many lives, an irony over which I shed many tears.

K.C. lived a couple more years. Jimmie had always been the extrovert, the one who organized their social life and activities. They had always been devoted to each other, and when I went back to stay with K.C. I found him very lonely. Finally, his mom came and took him home, tenderly caring for him until the end.

That’s my family’s AIDS story.

My friend, Sister Mary Beth Lloyd, works with other families, children whose parents have died of AIDS, taking care of each other. She’s written a book called AIDS Orphans Rising. You might expect it to be depressing, but it’s an amazing story of hope and inspiration. If you’d like to learn more about these kids, and how you can help, please visit her website:

http://www.aidsorphansrising.org/wordpress/

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Today is Thanksgiving, and before I close my computer and focus on the family gathering, I wanted to thank you all, my wonderful readers. This is the day we Americans make a special point of being grateful, and I certainly am.

I’m grateful for my life and my health, for this incredibly beautiful natural world we inhabit. I’m so very grateful for the people I love, for my husband, my children, grandchildren, and my sisters and brothers. And I have been incredibly blessed in my friends. I’m grateful for my business and the work I get to do, connecting with so many amazing people, and making new friends.

My life is not perfect, of course, and there are always challenges. But the gift of being alive and looking forward to each new day is something to appreciate, isn’t it?

I’m wishing you a very Happy Thanksgiving, and a cornucopia of blessings for this holiday season and all the days to come!

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The handsome young man on the left, posing for his proud parents behind the camera, is my dad, Leon Lambert. The family story is that he lied about his age and enlisted in the Navy at seventeen. But as I do the math, I’m not sure. He turned eighteen in September 1941, and Pearl Harbor wasn’t bombed until December 7th.

At any rate, he left his small town in South Texas, and traveled far away to California for basic training and ultimately, deployment in the Pacific. There his fleet engaged in some of the momentous battles of World War II. The navy taught him to cook, and later, he taught me. On ship, he developed a taste for gambling that stayed with him for the rest of his life. He saw the world, and never again was he content to stay long in one place.

At the same time, my mother was living in New York. On Sunday afternoons she’d sit in movie theatres, watching newsreels of bodies floating in bloody water, by the side of the vessel on which my dad lived and worked and fought.

In 1945, when he came home, my dad stepped off an elevator in the British Officers Club. My mum, sitting behind a table as the volunteer hostess, took one look at him and thought, “Oh, my God. I’m going to marry this man.” He was six feet, three inches tall, and he weighed 121 pounds when he signed the marriage certificate, three weeks later.

He went home to Texas to visit his parents, and mother followed him to San Antonio to meet them. She got off the train wearing a wool tweed suit and furs, into 98 degree weather. They took her home to a sun beaten farm house surrounded by dirt and animals.

Later, she took him home with her to Vancouver, to the beautiful house in Shaughnessy, to her father, the lawyer, and my Uncle Charles, the Lieutenant-Governor. They planned his future, and sent him to college. I was born, increasing the stakes. Then, with only a few weeks until graduation and the moment he was to step forward into their plan, he took us and bolted, back down the coast to one town after another, one job after another. In time, my dad made a success of his own business. My parents had seven children. They stayed together thirty-four tumultuous years.

For my father, the Navy was a stepping stone into a bigger life. I think he joined to take that step, but also because he loved his country and he wanted to defend her. He saw terrible things in the war, and if he came home a little crazy, that may have been part of the reason. He had a demon in him, that came out from time to time in violent outbursts.

My dad probably suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome, but in his time, there was no name for it. Like hundreds of thousands of other men and women in the 1940s, those who fought and those who served at home, he was marked forever by his war.

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Today our old doggie died. Blackie was the last one of the pets that grew up with my “second family” of children, a golden retriever/black lab cross. As the final animal survivor of that era, he outlived Mia, a tiny terrier; Jake and Jana, golden cocker spaniels; Sadie, our calico cat; and Little Boy, the cat who went off to college with our youngest son. And, of course, numerous turtles, snakes and fish.

We got Blackie after our nieces came to live with us. Matt had been virtually an only child; his two older siblings are 20 and 17 years older and more like extra parents. The addition of 3 little girls into our household was quite a shock for him, but he understood how important it was that we provide a home for them. At eleven years old, he was forced to share his mother, but he drew the line at sharing his dog.

So one Sunday afternoon, we drove down to Wimberley and adopted a tiny puppy. On the way home, amidst the “oohing” and “awwing,” the girls bestowed upon him probably the least imaginative name available. That night, all the children and the dogs slept together in the living room, on a pallet in front of the fireplace.

Mia, who was a fraction of Blackie’s adult size, took immediately to her new role of surrogate mother, and helped me train him. To this day, he still peed in a little girl squat, just as Mia showed him. All her life, Blackie followed Mia around faithfully. When she died, he was lost, but he quickly shifted his devotion to me. Wherever I stood, there he was. In fact, it was Blackie that I tripped over when I tore up my knee two years ago.

As is true of all dogs who are cherished and given the opportunity, Blackie loved us unconditionally. When one of us was sad, he was there resting his head upon a knee. When we moved to the front door, he was there with his head cocked, eager to be a partner on our walk. We will miss him so much. Still, our kids are all grown up now, and though we have been crying a lot today, we will enjoy the increased freedom.

Perhaps my strongest feeling now is one of gratitude, for Blackie’s life and for my husband and children. Matt and Brittany each drove from their jobs to be with us at the vet, to tell Blackie they loved him, and be with him as he passed. Dempsey, who is the most emotional of all of us, sobbed as he carried Blackie into the vet in his arms, and carried him out again wrapped in a sheet. The kids hugged us and each other, and when we called New York to tell the other girls, there were more tears. I see the values that we hold so dear expressed in the lives of our children, and I know the experience of loving and caring for Blackie, and our other animals, did much to build those values.

Goodbye, sweet Blackie.

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Recently I came across some remarks that were very critical of me.  They appeared in a public forum, and other people soon chimed in, offering their own thoughts (based on only partial information).  What made the remarks really sting was that they originated with a person who is not actually a friend, but – because of her work, because we know the same people and she lives in an area I often visit – I expected to meet her eventually, and I thought we’d like each other.

Of course, I encounter criticism from time to time.  Somebody takes issue with something I’ve written, or doesn’t like a book or article.  Someone who is acquainted with me in my personal life disagrees with something I’ve done.  But I am generally impervious to that type of criticism.  Everyone is entitled to an opinion, and what someone else thinks is his or her business, not mine.

I used to be pretty sensitive.  My feelings were easily hurt, and what other people thought about me seemed very important.  But as I grew older,  the opinions of others became much less significant.  I’m certainly not unique in this; I think it happens to most of us.  We realize that life is short, and we decide to live life on our own terms.

This time, however, I found myself feeling defensive.  I wanted to jump into the conversation, and explain why I’d been right. It felt really important to me to explain myself,  and to convince other people of my point of view.

It took me a couple of hours, then I took a step back, emotionally speaking.  I took a look at myself, and why I was responding with such intensity.  When I did,  the answer was clear.  The writer of the critical comment was my mirror: She was giving voice to my own inner doubts about the choice I had made.  Later in the day, a friend offered another perspective: Perhaps the writer was reacting negatively to me, because she was still feeling ambivalent about a choice she had made in the past.

So the solution to my discomfort was not to write a rebuttal. It was to heal the conflict within myself, to make peace with that part of me that questioned the rightness of my actions.  Once I did that, the criticism slid into background noise, and eventually receded altogether.

The truth is, we’re all mirrors for each other.  We are constantly reflecting back to each other our own inner judgments, doubts and fears.  Similarly, we reflect back to each other our feelings of inner peace, and love.   So when I am conflicted, when I am not in complete alignment with my value system, I see criticism, and I react to it.  And when I am at peace with myself, I see only peace around me.

The concept of the mirror explains why happy people have happy families, and unhappy people are often surrounded by unhappiness.  We create our own communities.  We each have filters, and we unconsciously filter out that which does not reflect our own inner reality.  It’s like buying a green car; until you do, you never notice green cars, then suddenly, you see them everywhere.

On a more global level, our world is a mirror of our inner landscape.  If we desire peace and justice in the world, we must each heal our inner selves.  Our task is to reach a place of inner calm, harmony and order.  That only happens through self-love.  When we love ourselves, we see love in the world. When enough of us achieve such inner peace, we will see peace manifest without, as well.

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When things are going well, it’s easy to think positive.  But when times are tough, it’s much more challenging.

For the past week, the area of Central Texas where I live has been beset by fires.  More than 1500 families have lost their homes, including some families from our homeschooling community.  At least two people have lost their lives.  One of our most beautiful state parks has been ninety-five percent destroyed – nearly 6,000 acres of piney woods.  I’m an avid nature lover, and it’s almost overwhelming to me to realize it will be decades before the forest rebounds. (The picture is of Bastrop State Park in happier times; I couldn’t bear to put up pictures of the fire.)

I do believe in the Law of Attraction.  I see it at work in my life, and in the lives of those around me.  I believe that our thoughts and our words are powerful, that what we hold in consciousness attracts more life experiences at the same vibration.

When I feel prosperous, I find money rolls in easily.  When I feel happy, more and more joyful events come into my life.  And if I’ve been sick, then notice I’m starting to get better, I soon find I’m returned to my full health and energy.  The theory, of course, is that we pay attention to, particularly with strong emotion, increases.

It took me quite a few years to understand and  start using these principles, but for the past thirty years, they’ve been part of my daily life.  I meditate, and I visualize what I want to happen.  I focus on creating a mental picture of the highest good for all concerned.  I pray, and I create vision boards.  On my bathroom mirror, I have a collection of little post-it note affirmations; when one comes to pass, I remove it.  When a new need or desire appears, up goes another post-it.  My friends and family tease me about being a first-class manifestor, always attracting wonderful things into my life and the lives of those I love.

Asking for what we want with strong emotion is the first part of manifesting, but the second part is equally important.  That is release.  Law of Attraction works when we ask clearly, but without a sense of attachment or desperation.  We put forth our request, then we allow God, or the Universe, or “whatever is out there” (we each have our own way of understanding that Higher Power) to work things out in the perfect way at the perfect time.  We recognize that sometimes the answer will not be as we imagined, and that’s okay.

It’s easy to see Law of Attraction working in situations where people are generally content and their basic needs are met.  But what about people who live in desperate circumstances, who are hungry or ill or victimized by war?  Why are they not receiving the benefit of Law of Attraction?

The answer is, they are.  People who are suffering are also attracting from their level of consciousness.  They are attracting more of what they think about and focus upon with strong emotion.  Law of Attraction is an impersonal law, like gravity.  It works all the time, whether we recognize it or not.

This week I’ve had a powerful personal experience of how all this works.  I’ve been so strongly impacted by the smoke, the stories, the losses, that I have found myself very sad and depressed.  It has required great focus for me to separate myself from the energy all around me, to meditate or to pray for protection for the land and the people, and for an end to the fires.

I’ve experienced first hand how easily we get caught up in group consciousness, and how sadness and anxiety soon spread to affect everyone involved.  It has reinforced for me the lesson I’ve had to learn before, that I must work to remain detached in order to cope with my own emotions, and to have a positive affect on the situation.

Does that mean there is no hope for people caught up in a mass consciousness of lack, or fear, or the expectation of still more bad times?   Absolutely not.  Because I also believe in, and have experienced, grace.  When any among us cannot transcend a consciousness of hopelessness,  then those of us who are operating with a consciousness of good can visualize, meditate, and pray on their behalf.

Calling forth grace for others is something we can do all the time, for those we love, and for anyone in any circumstances, anywhere in the world.  But insofar as we can, we must make the call from a place of inner peace.

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The past few days I’ve been tied in knots, consumed with worry and anxiety.  This is uncharacteristic for me, but it happens sometimes.  The worry had taken over my mind to the point I couldn’t even meditate, which is generally the best tool in my sanity toolbox. I had temporarily lost my center, that clear connection to my higher self and my inner peace.

Last night I realized I have been so overwhelmed I’ve neglected my usual exercise routine and my daily walk.  Austin is a wonderful town for walking; there are hike and bike trails, wonderful parks and public spaces all over the city.  From September through April, it’s outdoor heaven.  The rest of the year, however, not so much.  It’s been over one hundred degrees this week, and it’s still May (which doesn’t bode well for the upcoming summer).  In weather like this, early is best.  So this morning, I set out walking about half past six.

There was a lovely breeze blowing through the trees and the flowers were all in bloom.  The squirrels were foraging and the birds singing at full volume.  As I walked, I could feel the tension in my body begin to release, just a bit.  I started to pray.

I grew up Catholic, so I think in terms of “prayer” and “God.”  But God, or the Universe, or the First Cause, or a Higher Power – however you conceive of whatever is out there – is too big to label and put in a box.  So, as you read this, please understand I’m just describing my process, offering you my ideas to consider and, if you find them helpful, to modify for yourself.

Sometimes when my mind is knotted up, it helps me to use the formal, rote prayers.  I began with a rosary, which consists of groups (or decades) of ten Hail Marys, interspersed with the Lord’s Prayer and a Gloria.  On each decade, I kept my thoughts on a prayer intention, one of the several things that are of current concern to me.  As I prayed and walked, I could feel the worry ease a little.

Then I did the Ho’oponno prayer: I’m sorry.  Please forgive me.  Thank you. I love you.  As I repeat those phrases, I am acknowledging that I and everyone else in my life, are connected through our unity with God. If something is not working in my life, or in my relationships, or in the life of another person in my awareness, I am somehow part of the problem.  And I can heal the situation by healing myself and sending healing energy through the prayer.

As I said the phrases, I kept in mind the things I feel need healing.  I began, of course, with my own personal issues.  In addition to those issues, at the moment I am having a disruption in my relationship with an old friend.  She’s going through some troubles of her own, and she’s withdrawn from me.  I think I’ve unwittingly offended her, or at least somehow prodded her in a tender area.  I’ve reached out and done all I can do on a “real world” level, several times.  Now it’s her decision whether or not to engage again with me.  So my job at this point is to send healing to myself and to her, and to release and accept what is and whatever will be as the situation unfolds.  I felt that knot begin to untie.

Several people in my family are going through challenges.  I’ve given the support I can on a practical and emotional level, and I know any further steps are theirs.  What I can do is hold the picture of a good outcome for them, and release my own anxiety.  As I used the four phrases, I felt those knots relax and loosen.

In the midst of this processing, I became aware of the anger I’ve been holding toward the surgeon who worked on my knee last year.  My knee is much, much better. A year ago I was using a cane.  Now I can walk an hour with only an occasional twinge, and that’s huge progress.  But I can’t run (not that I’ve ever been much of a runner), and negotiating stairs is still painful and slow.

He promised me a return to full function in my knee, and it hasn’t happened.  His surgical assistant promised me I’d be 100% recovered within two months, and that was not true.  I’ve resumed my physical therapy exercises, and I’m using some non-traditional approaches to the problem, but on the walk, it occurred to me my knee may not heal until I completely forgive, release my anger, and surrender to what is.  That knot got a little looser.

I haven’t yet returned to a state of joy, but I’m moving back in that direction.

How do you untie your knots?

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Bob Dylan is seventy years old today.  How on earth did that happen? If Dylan is now officially an old man, then that makes me…well,  old enough to have been listening to him since the beginning.

At the end of ABC News this afternoon, broadcast from the scene of tornado damage in Joplin, Missouri, Bob Dylan’s Shelter from the Storm played over photographs of the devastation.  In fact, for half a century, Dylan’s songs have been telling the stories of  American lives.

Dylan wrote and recorded The Death of Emmet Till during the height of the Civil Rights Movement.  Blowin’ in the Wind captured the country’s sense of frustration during the Vietnam War.  The Times They are a-Changin’ chronicled the turbulence of the 1960s.  He expressed our desire to put aside violence in Knock, Knock, Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door. And although he didn’t write them, Dylan’s rendition of  Freight Train Blues and Gotta Travel On perfectly captured America’s restlessness.

In songs such as Mr. Tambourine Man, Dylan told stories.  He sang about lust in Lay Lady, Lay, and about love in Make You Feel My Love.  He sang about rejection in I Don’t Believe You (She Acts Like We Have Never Met), and he said goodbye to love in Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.

In the midst of his own spiritual search, Dylan gave us Death is Not the End and Do Right to Me Baby (Do Unto Others). Dignity expressed our human need to be acknowledged and respected.  Heartland remains relevant to the struggles so many Americans are now experiencing.  

As the rest of us have matured and mellowed, so has Dylan.  In It’s All Right and A Satisfied Mind, the singer has made peace with life.  Fixin’ to Die (written by bluesman Bukka White) describes the conflict between a willingness to let go of life and sadness at leaving the ones we love.

For me as a writer, Dylan is an inspiration.  His lyrics are alternately simple and complex, angry and tender, ironic and hopeful.  His music has provided the soundtrack for a generation.

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Recently I helped my daughter clean up the bedroom occupied by my 8 and 11-year-old grandsons.  I considered donning tyvek overalls and putting Vicks on my upper lip, as they do in the forensic shows on television, but when I got there it really wasn’t too bad.  Smelled a bit of small boy feet, but mainly there were layers upon layers of stuff, wall to wall.  As we worked, we joked that we felt like archeologists, unearthing layers of a civilization.

Later, when we picked up the boys, they were thrilled to hear their room was orderly again.  They’d actually retreated to a foldout couch to sleep, because of all the toys and clothes on their bed, and on the floor, and on top of every surface, and in their closet.  Well, you get the picture. They were very excited to move back in and snuggle in their own beds.

My daughter had employed a technique I remember using when she and her siblings were young.  She asked them to tell her exactly what toys they wanted to keep, and they gave her permission to give away everything else.  We filled up two giant outside bins, one with trash and one with recyling, and gave away about ten huge black garbage bags of toys and clothes.

My mother’s house was almost always tidy, despite the presence of seven children.  She was a naturally neat person, I think, and we always had a maid.   But I remember times when I was a child and felt overwhelmed cleaning my room.  I would get to the point that completing the necessary work just seemed impossible.  With my parents it usually turned into a power struggle, and I was either punished or shamed because of my inadequacy.

Home is ideally a place of refuge, and at least a minimal level of order and cleanliness is critical to our peace of mind and well-being.  It seems like such a simple thing, but maintaining order in our environment is rather like eating. It requires our daily attention and action.

During my first marriage, and for some years afterward, my house was usually pretty messy.  I was chronically depressed during those years, and of course I had two small children and worked outside the home.  Like all of us during that era, both my husband and I were clear that housework was woman’s work.  He did occasionally clean or cook, but we both understood he was assisting me in my job.  When things got too bad, I had two or three friends who’d pitch in to help, and I’d do the same for them.

Many years later, when Dempsey and I first contemplated moving in together, I was quite reluctant.  When he asked what I was worried about, I told him I just didn’t think I could ever again face providing that level of personal service, being responsible for picking up someone’s socks, cooking all the meals and doing his laundry.  He was genuinely puzzled.  Why would I think he’d expect me to do that?  Because he had a penis, I explained cynically.

Dempsey had presented himself as a feminist, and he did talk a good game.  But I couldn’t quite imagine living with a man who actually walked the walk.  I sold him short, however.  He’s always done at least half the housework, and together we maintain a pretty comfortable level of order and cleanliness, without household help.

As I was working with Allison, and reflecting on it later, I realized there are some important life lessons lurking in this whole area of house cleaning:

1)  In our affluent society, it’s easy to get weighed down by our stuff.  We actually found, among the layers, Christmas presents still in their gift bags. It’s important not to let our relative wealth rob us of simplicity.  We need room for energy to flow, room to breathe and move freely as we go through life.

2) When we become overwhelmed, it’s important to ask for help.  It’s also a great gift for us to give help without judgment, one human being to another.

3) Children flourish – as we all do – when we give them respect and understanding.  My daughter is such a wonderful mother; she really exemplifies those qualities.

4) We all need a fresh start now and then.  It’s important to clear the slate, in whatever situation, and simply begin again without holding on to any regrets.

I’m sure there are other lessons to be found, but I’m a bit tired now, thinking of all that cleaning.

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