Category Archives: Uncategorized

Well, unless you are Stormy Daniels, I guess.  But that’s not what this is about.

Reading the many articles and statements that result from the #metoo movement is both a catharsis and a series of considerations.  While I can’t possibly express how offended and indignant I am at much of what I’ve read, not all of the stories seem worthy of my outrage.

Conversely, there was the time I went into my professional review – something I had anxiously awaited, as all hopeful hard-working young people do – only to come face to face with a monitor displaying pornography.  “You don’t mind, right?”  my supervisor said, smiling.

I did.  And I told him I did.

And I have other stories.  Some of them more shocking and less funny than that one.  But all of this is complicated.  Eros is complicated.  I also have had wonderful relationships with men I’ve met at work – relationships that would never have developed if one or both of us hadn’t been willing to risk rejection with some small overture that went beyond the most expected of professional communications.  The blueberry muffins home baked and proffered in the kitchen over the water cooler, the inquiries about how my work was going, the suggestion we go for lunch – offsite.  Things can become colorful with a bit of encouragement so it’s worth considering where the lines of convention ought to be; I’d argue we don’t want to become rules-robots.

For my own part, while I’m not known for throwing people I find attractive against a wall and stuffing my tongue into their mouth, I’d hate to think that I or any of the women I know aren’t at liberty to express our interest in someone – that would seem … well … awful.  And it cuts both ways.  I can’t emphasize enough that while my own experience of inappropriate sexual advances have overwhelmingly been of men carrying them out, and of them being power-based in their origins, it would not be true to say that I, as a woman am not in command of my sexuality.   And frankly, in the spirit of achieving the kind of equality I think is sensible, I’d rather bring us even rather than engage in castigating each other.  Unless you’re Matt Lauer, a rapist, Harvey Weinstein, or one of their ilk.  In which case you deserve to be castigated.  Or worse.

So I would like to offer the following as a kind of start at setting guidelines for our consideration:

If your first expression of interest (called thus in goodwill) would NOT appear in the pages of a Jane Austen novel (with language adjusted for modern tongues) it’s probably not appropriate as a first overture.

If, to correct you, anyone has to physically displace any part of your body, you can assume you are out of line.

Porn is out unless you’ve already had sex.  And talked about it.  Porn, I mean.

Please do not tell me what I want.  I can tell you what I want.

No definitely means no.  Even if one says “no, thank you.”  It’s still no.

I am not in any way questioning the import and timeliness of #metoo.  Believe me, my stories really could fit right in with some of the most shocking ones.  But I want us to be careful.  Nothing stands in for good old-fashioned personal responsibility and self possession.

Unless we’re talking about Matt Lauer.  That guy really pisses me off.

With all of that particulate matter banished to warmer skies, the northeast night sky shimmers with a giant white moon hanging in the east.  It’ll track toward the west in a south-facing sky, illuminating deer in the snow, new years revelers, and trees frosted with ice.

In this sleeping time there’s the comfort food and the snow boots carrying us through snow drifts.  Maybe on winter vacations, great aluminum wings lifting us high into the sky, pointing toward southern destinations.

Here in Massachusetts the days have been arctic cold– 7 degrees farenheit as I write this — my queue to stay warm inside, resting.  The heating system in our old farmhouse barely keeps up with the cold, drafts that make me think a door has been left open sometimes blow through.   I remind myself this house has weathered winters since 1750, family after family living here – the first owner a major in the revolutionary war.  The horse hair walls and old plank floors look strong, solid, reassuring, with 9 over 9 windows framing the beautiful, clear night sky and luminous moon, the fireplaces and roof standing where they’ve stood for 267 years.

Another year under the winter sky for this old house and its people for now, 2017/18.  Winters come and winter go.

Happy (another) new year.

We all wax and wane, like celestial bodies, in clarity.

Brilliant in our humanity, an infinity of gods and goddesses stumbling toward the light.

Writing stories, living in the shadows of stories, becoming our own stories.

Imbolg is the season of welcoming Spring, banishing Winter.  the green of the pines, heavy with the weight of snow.  the sun setting after I leave the office – not before.  the final retreat of the holiday lights.  Gardening catalogs begin to arrive.  Imbolg is as the darkest part of the night – the bit just before dawn, and somewhat fearsome.

Still time to bank the fire, stay warm inside, waiting for the return of Lucifer.

He always seems to turn up, eventually.

Here on Oahu there is something called the Valley of the Temples.  To get there from the west side of the island you have to drive the H-3, which is incredible.  Flanked by towering fortress-like mountains that ascend at a breathtaking angle, lush and vertically channelled, the highway winds through a valley, through a tunnel though the mountains, and eventually reaches the east coast.  Many are said to have died in strange ways during the construction of the highway, which took many times more time and money than the military planned to spend on its construction … due in part to concerns over altering the landscape and worries for the local environment.  The people of Hawaii are tied to their land, to their ocean, to their mountains and sky.

The mountains we crossed that day are said to be peopled with the Night Marchers – ancient hawaiian warriors that march old battle sites and haunts during the night, spiriting away visitors who dare to look at them, rather than to drop to their bellies and hide their faces.  Friends of friends have seen them, reporting beating drums and dancing figures outside their doors during the night.  Those who have relatives already co-opted into their ranks are immune, but no one else is …

There are also stories of Pele, who travels the east coast, visiting residents unannounced.  She appears as a woman with long, flowing hair, or as an old woman.  She’s reported to have knocked on front doors, asking for sugar.  Turn her away and face her curse.

The East coast is also home to the Valley of the Temples,  a place that intends sanctuary for many religions.  It so happens, though, that the place to visit in this valley is the Byodo-in temple.

A blanket of peacefulness and light seems to lay upon the place;  after parking and (gladly) paying 3.00 for admittance, visitors turn to the scenic facade of the temple, nestled amid mountains, conifers, and bamboo stands.  It waits across a short walking bridge, seeming to calmly invite folks closer.   There are black swans, walking paths, coi, and a lovely, rather-grand-though-not-enormous temple that is home to a great bronze statue of the buddha.   There’s a ringing bell that clears the mind, a monk wandering about, and a place to buy food for the birds and fish– which delights many visitors, both young and not-so-young.

Hawaii has so much energy, so much movement, that it’s difficult to say which places feel the best and are hardest to leave.

In the end, after exciting days of surfing, hiking beautiful shorelines and forests, snorkeling, and enjoying gorgeous waterfront settings, the temple was the highlight for me and for Inga, my eleven year old daughter.  It would be hard to imagine the Night Marchers haunting the temple grounds … but then, who knows?

At Waikiki beach there were so many faces, so much going on.  People surfing, throwing themselves off of jettis, riding waves into shore on their bellies, trying to catch the tropical fish along the shoreline rocks, swimming, tanning, reading, building sand castles, showcasing themselves.  There was even a young woman standing knee deep in the water taking selfie after selfie after selfie … ad nauseum.

The sun is hot, the water is cool, the beach is crowded.  My 14 year old son took his first surfing lesson on Waikiki beach this week with a guy who has to be the coolest man around – James of Make a Wish.  James works with my sister granting wishes on Oahu via Make a Wish – a nonprofit that grants wishes to chronically ill kids.  He’s a master surfer himself, and his job now-a-days is to grant surfing wishes … which he does –  all the time.  Apparently even for kids who aren’t sick.

He had my son up on the first wave after a short primer, and Tristan surfed for at least 40 minutes.  Surfing with James.  A total dream.

And then he took my nephew out for the same.  Then my daughter and niece.  He calibrates each lesson for each student, talking easily with all of the kids around him – the ones riding belly boards, the ones chasing fish.  After hours of swimming, teaching, dragging kids into the waves, and surfing – on his day off- he shakes hands with folks on the beach, lifts his surfboards (2 – one for him, one for his student) and walks off with them, toward downtown Honolulu.

Awesome.

Once upon a time there was a girl who had a smile that looked a lot like the sun. When we were together, so many years ago, we listened to a song that was popular then – La Isla Bonita. The pretty island. It was a song about happiness and love. The kind of thing young, bright, hopeful girls wish for. We would drive to school, singing along to that song, homework in our backpacks, smiles on our faces, sure of a future.

Then she died, leaving me alone with that song and my memory of her.

Tonight, in the car, I was channel surfing, and there it was. Just beginning. Our song.

I listened, and cried, the car empty without her there beside me singing. Hours later my eyes are still full of tears, my head is full of that song. I know that these things, these outcomes, are a mix of destiny and desire. Choice and fate, perfect in their precise execution of our deepest wishes mixed up and stirred into what must be.

And yet I wish with all my heart that Eva had been with me in the car tonight, singing. I wish for another chance to see her and touch her, and to smile and sing about the pretty island. A place we always said we would go together.

Someday I feel sure we will.