Saturday, December 22, 2018

Photos





OK - here are some photos, not in particular order.

The top one is an oil painting I did from a photo I took while in Seattle on the ferry to Victoria

The next two are quite self-evident.  Ireland

That adorable child is the latest addition to the family

The skull is my latest painting, a meditation on death. The title is:

"Underneath we are all alike."



Again, love and light

2018

Well, 2018 hurtles to a close.

"Another one down, another one down, another one bites the dust"

I think no matter where anyone is situated on the carousel of life; to the left, to the right, at the top, at the bottom, this has been a hell of a year.

For me personally it has been punctuated by some lovely events - a trip to Israel, a trip to Montreal and Quebec City where I was graciously hosted by family members I had not previously met. So interesting, we are born in different countries, at different times, but I experienced the same warmth and ease as I do with family I have known all my life.

I think of the word family, and all that it means really and truly, deep down in our marrow. For me it conjures up feelings of warmth, and caring, a shared 'something' that surpasses time and space. Invisible silken threads
- fine filaments, which float and connect to us, and tie us together.

And another trip, to Ireland, a country I have always wanted to visit, for some unknown reason. It is nowhere in my DNA as far as I know. It was a really lovely, interesting, fun trip.

A beloved aunt passed away - and although it is, of course, sad, it was also a good end to a good life. A blessing, and a leavetaking.

I have not written much this year, but I have painted. Indeed, I shall try and post some of my paintings. In fact, I shall endeavour to post some pictures from this year. (in due time)

So, to one and all, here's to a return to the light.

Love and blessings








Monday, October 15, 2018

All I want

HHHHHHHEEEEEEELLLLLLLPPPPPPPPPPP

I want to go back to the time when all you had to do to look at a TV was to turn it on.

I want to go back to the time when all you had to do to drive a car was fill it with gas and turn on the ignition.

I want to go back to the time when all you had to do to wash clothes was put them in the bin and turn it on - OR, even better, put the clothes in a sink, wash them and hang them outside to dry.

I want to go back to the time when you enter numbers onto a phone pad and call someone.

I JUST CAN"T TAKE THE RIDICULOUS STRESS OF ELECTRONIC DIGITAL LIFE. Everything is difficult enough without all these added nonsenses.




HHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEELLLLLPPPPPPPPP

Thursday, September 20, 2018

A Physical

On Saturday evening my iPhone 6s was scheduled to undergo a battery replacement at the Genius Bar.

Around the time I had paid off my iPhone 6s - i.e. at the end of the two year contract, I began to receive e-mails from Apple and Verizon, my service provider, that I am eligible for an upgrade. At the same time I noticed that my battery was slowing down. The same thing had happened with my iPhone 5. It simply died at the exact time my contract ended, and I had paid it off. Planned obsolescence was my diagnosis, but I nevertheless traded it in for the 6s, and swore I would not do this again.

Around the same time that my 6s began to slow down, articles were published about the fact that these phones were intentionally programmed to slow down. Apple now offered to replace the batteries for $29 instead of $80.

Aha - vindicated. I really do not need an upgrade, no matter how much quicker, lighter, better, more flash, better cameras etc. etc. the latest models are.

I am old enough to remember a time when one could have parts replaced, and objects fixed, instead of being discarded. Workmen took pride in their skills. They had work, landfills were not clogged. And may I remind anyone reading this, it was not that long ago.

In order to prolong my battery life I closed apps that kept running in the background. I did everything I could short of not using my phone at all to prolong its life. This did help for quite a while, but about two weeks ago it appeared to go kaput. I decided to have the battery replaced. Not feeling competent to carry out this operation alone, I made an appointment at the Genius Bar.

Upon my arrival I was greeted at the door by a smiling technician/assistant/greetperson - whatever the correct terminology is, and was directed to the Genius Bar where another smiling polite person, iPad in hand, greeted me again, and after checking my name motioned me to take a seat at a table until I was called.

I am not oblivious to the dazzling displays of everything Apple. I left my seat to look at the enticing items displayed on the walls. Immediately a smiling young man, Zack, walked over to me to inquire whether he could assist me. Actually I think he probably said he would be glad to be of assistance to me.

"Just looking," I told him as a smiling young woman, Melissa, approached me. She would be my Genius.

"What is the problem" she inquired, smiling. I told her and the first thing she said was that I can trade in my phone for the next and best.

"No," I said firmly. To my astonishment she confessed that she still has an iPhone 6s! So, with great understanding she told me she would run a battery of diagnostic tests on my phone. She hooked it up to electrodes placed at various pulse points on the phone, and ran impressive graphs of usage, times of use, battery performance, etc. The equivalent of lab tests to determine what is ailing the patient. After looking at these and nodding she showed me the battery's performance levels and declared that everything is fine. My phone does not need a battery replacement at this time. (Sort of like going to the dentist with a raging toothache only to have it vanish at the appointment time.) She assured me that the battery special is offered until December, so I should monitor its performance. If it REALLY does run slow (she made me realise I had been overly anxious) then I should make another appointment.

But I was not quite ready to leave. Kevin was going to outfit my current phone with an anti-glare screen. This required the use of a special machine to put it on, so that it would be nothing short of perfection itself on my VERY outdated artifact.

Thursday, August 9, 2018

Fullness of Time


If there are any of you readers who have followed me from when I began this blog, you will know that I began it after my book Tree Barking: A Memoir, was published. At speaking events I was asked whether I would continue writing about my work. At the suggestion of a publisher, I began this blog in 2009, and have continued posting even though I 'retired' from this work in 2015.

When I first began work in early intervention in 2003 it was in the good old days before all the cuts in services had begun. I worked as an Occupational Therapist in the homes of high risk infants. I worked with the infants twice or even three times a week until they turned three, at which time they entered the school system.

In those days of plenty, high risk referred to any infant who had a low birthweight, or was born prematurely, who was at risk because of their environment, or who were diagnosed with any number of chromosomal abnormalities, syndromes, and so on. (If you have questions about this, please let me know.)

The work was both extremely gratifying, challenging, difficult, and frustrating.

It happened that in 2003 I was referred, amongst many other cases, to two micropreemie girls. These girls were born in the same month, in the same year, both in the city of Richmond, both from African American families. They were both born at just six months of age, and both weighed just one pound! Of course they remained in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit until they reached full term. Both of them suffered from all the problems of extreme prematurity, ranging from retinopathy of prematurity, breathing and heart problems, neurological disturbances, feeding difficulties, necrotizing enterecolitis, on and on. Each came with a page of illnesses they had both, rather miraculously, overcome. While they were hospitalized they overcame life threatening events. These girls never knew each other, and still don't. I entered their lives at a fragile time in their homes. Such births and difficulties place enormous stress on families.

It didn't take long before I was hopelessly in love with both of these tiny, fragile little creatures. Because I was there twice a week, in their homes, I became part of their families. I was witness to parental struggles and separations, emotional and financial difficulties, as well as truly awful life shattering events. One of the fathers was killed, and the other was incarcerated for 12 years at the time when his little daughter was getting to know him.

I was witness to the strong bonds of love and loyalty between the family members. I was in awe of both grandmothers who had worked and survived against all the crushing obstacles they had faced. I became like a member of the family, but all the while I knew that when they turned three, both in the same month, I would no longer see them.

Their mothers and grandmothers really worked hard with these fragile infants who quite quickly began to catch up to typically developing children. In fact, I realised that both these li'l things were quite exceptional.

From the time they turned two and a half I began telling them, as I told every child I worked with, whether their parents thought they would understand or not, that when they turned three I would no longer be seeing them. I was obviously a big part of the childrens' lives, devoting a full hour twice a week to be with them. They enjoyed my undivided attention,
and of course were most delighted to see me with my large black canvas bag of 'tricks,' (the toys and books I brought to them. They received me with delight and cried when I left, although I assured them I would be back soon. I never wanted to just stop seeing a child and never return. I told them that I would not be coming because they were doing very nicely, and were going on to new things. I told them I would always carry them in my heart.

This was, indeed the case. Thanks to social media I have remained in touch with their mothers over the years. And I mean years. These young ladies are 18 years of age and have both graduated. I was invited to their graduation ceremonies and festivities.

Over the past two weekends I have been out with both of these 'girls.' I was beyond thrilled to reconnect with them and their families and was received with the warmest of embraces from all members of the family. They have both done so incredibly well, and have blossomed into really delightful, insightful, thoughtful, intelligent beings.

It is so gratifying to me that we continue to share a warm and loving bond, and I am now watching them spread their wings and fly.

Wednesday, August 8, 2018

The House of Estrogen

I am copying and pasting a part of my as yet unfinished book. It is about one of the girls I wrote about in my next blog. "Fullness of Time."

For obvious reasons, all names have been changed.

Coral and I sat in their kitchen. She finished her bowl of oatmeal and climbed down from the high chair. Clad only in her diaper she stood in an attitude of defiance. Her tiny little legs were placed wide apart, and her little fists were balled up at her sides. Her hair stood up around her pretty face in wild curls. She looked at me, and then spoke for the very first time. Her very first words to me were “Nesta, mommy hit me.”

Mom was in the bedroom. I called out to her “Did you hit Coral?”

“I sure did,” mom answered in her direct manner.

“Coral kicked her little cousin, the one you met last week, who just started to crawl. I hit her because she kicked her cousin. Soon as I hit my baby I realized what I did was wrong. I need to explain things to her and not whup her. She understands everything. She was insulted and shocked I hit her. Now she can’t forget it. She trusts you. She thinks you will help her if she tells you what I did.”

This was certainly not a case of child abuse. A mother was rearing her child according to her family’s norms. This is yet another of the instances that make working in peoples’ homes difficult.

We are mandated reporters of violence or abuse, but I have to be sensible and flexible. Every culture has its own practices and norms, and this even differs from family to family within a specific culture. I do not want to impose my ideas of what is wrong or right on a family. Certain actions are a given, and transcend every culture, like severe physical and emotional abuse, neglect, medical neglect, and we have to follow strict rules to ensure that families comply with these. Besides these obvious transgressions, how to handle situations is left up to a practitioner’s discretion.

This family was not an abusive family. Love and caring pulsated in and around the home.

I remembered my first visit. I had received a referral to a then 6-month old girl, Coral, who was born extremely prematurely, (at just 25 weeks), weighing just under one pound. The referral stated that she lived with her mother and grandmother in the grandmother's house. It further stated that although mother gave birth in the hospital, she was incarcerated at the time of her birth. Grandmother took care of Coral until mom was released.

On my first visit to the suburban home it vibrated with feminine energy. Mother, grandmother, and an aunt were all present. The aunt, close in age to mom, sat with her back toward us as she worked on a computer in the living room. However, at every one of my questions she turned around to add her observations. All three women were obviously very involved in Coral’s care.

While I went over the filling in of forms, names, addresses, social security numbers, medical insurance information, etc, I sat on the sofa, and looked around me. The kitchen stood just off the living room. The passageway to the bedrooms led off from the living room. I noticed that a large number of interesting-looking clocks decorated the walls of the living room, the kitchen, and the passage. Some were made of wood, some of metal. Decorations were either painted or sculpted on the faces. All the clocks worked. I made a mental note to ask about them when I got to know the family better.

Mom let me hold Coral, a tiny, very pretty little girl even though she had hardly any hair, and had a severe case of cradle cap. She gazed at me with lively curiosity in her large brown eyes. Her little mouth formed a perfect cupid’s bow. Mom answered my questions in a rather curt and abrupt manner, sort of blurting out answers. When gran or the aunt interjected, they were far more friendly, especially grandmom.

I told them I would see Coral twice a week. Mom requested that I come at 8 a.m. on Fridays, and so began my two year saga in The House of Estrogen.

Winter, spring, summer, and fall I arrived at the home at 8.00 a.m. As there was no front door bell I had to knock, bang rather, very loudly on the wooden door. There was never any sound of life. Every Friday, winter, spring, summer, and fall I knocked, louder and louder, and called Mom's name. Winter, spring, summer, and fall the man who lived across the street watched this procedure. Soon he recognized my car and when I opened the door he called out "they’re all at home." My next step, after the futile knocking, was to take my cell phone out of my handbag and call. I informed whomever brusquely picked up the phone, that I was outside. After a while I heard steps, then mom flung open the door. She stuck her head out, squinting in the morning light. Her hair stood up in kind of spikes, and she glared at me as if I had absolutely no right to be standing there. Every Friday this same procedure, and always I was reminded of Brenda, in the film, Bagdad Cafe. Brenda was the angry black woman whose hair stood on end, and she glared at Jasmin, the zaftig German woman, with venomous hatred, seeing her transform into a mean colonial creature come to do her harm.

Mom opened the door, turned around, and walked back to her bedroom shouting, "Coral, git up, Nesta's here." Sometimes I followed her into the bedroom she shared with Coral, other times I would remain in the living room, perched on a sofa, looking at the clocks.

In the bedroom where Coral and mom shared a bed, Mom pulled the covers back and little Coral would sit up, blinking in a startled fashion, then she looked around the room, saw me and smiled. At first she would roll in my direction until she began to crawl. Much later she began to toddle, until finally she could run into my arms. She jumped up, little arms outstretched, and hugged me tight. When I remained in the living room Coral would toddle in, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, and jump into my arms. Coral was a delight, bright and vivacious, and we shared a wonderful relationship.
Mom warmed up over time, especially when she saw I really cared for Coral. I appreciated mom and all the females present because they were direct and honest, and their love and caring for each other was palpable.

During one of my visits I asked mom about the clocks.
She told me her dad made them. I had never met her father. The only men I saw were a boyfriend of the aunts and Coral’s dad, who sometimes came to pick her up. I hadn’t exchanged more than a quick nod with either of them. I asked mom where her dad was. In her direct manner she answered, San Quentin. When I asked why she replied in her usual gruff manner, “He’s in for life”.

The family visited him on a regular basis, and once Coral would accompany them on visits.

I gathered that Gran, a bus driver, had raised her daughters mostly as a single parent. She had not had an easy time of it, working, raising her children, as well as those of her in-and-out-of addiction’s sister’s children, all nieces.

The house brimmed with feminine energy. Like a sparkling cloud it flowed through the home, manifesting in scented soaps and perfumes, stylish dresses, dangly earrings, giggling chatter. Sometimes when I visited I observed the hair grooming ritual. On the floor the youngest little girl would wriggle in an older sister or cousin’s lap. The younger girls sat behind them, squished onto the sofa. Aunts, mom and grandma sat on chairs behind the sofa. Deft fingers combed and brushed out tangles on the heads in front of them, dipping into jars of Vaseline, laughing, joking, rubbing their fingers together, smoothing and combing the hair before parting it into sections, and braiding or twisting the strands. Their dancing fingers dipped into an enormous plastic container full of clips, ribbons and barrettes. They matched colors to that day’s clothing. A synchronized orchestration of movement and color, enveloped in a pink and sparkling cotton-like mist.

“Oatmilk,” was Coral’s idea of the best food in the world. ‘Oatmilk” was one of her first words. When she jumped on my lap in the living room I would massage the night stiffness out of her little limbs. Then we would get on to the floor and I would place her on a large bouncy exercise ball, or we would play with push pull toys, like her little pram with her babies inside. As soon as she got hungry she ran to her mom who had got back into bed, shake her, and say “Mommie, git up, make me oatmilk.’

When I asked her what they had for Thanksgiving, she smiled excitedly, stretched out her little arms heavenward and said “oatmilk.” Mom, who was listening to our conversation gruffly assured me they did have other food, besides oatmeal.

Men faded in and out. Aunt had a boyfriend who lived with them. He left the home early in the morning. Aunt had worked as an office manager but with the worsening of the economy she lost her job and spent her days job searching for work online.
She became pregnant and gave birth to a lively full term daughter, Pearl. The daughters and cousins, sisters and aunts only gave birth to girls, and named them after gems: Coral, Pearl, Crystal, Ruby, Sparkle.

I met Coral’s dad a few times. He came by to see Coral and to take her to his place.
When Coral began to talk she related the names of her many relatives, and explained their relationship to her. She was like a tiny little family tree.

Once when I returned after a three week vacation mom came to the door, looking very thin, and I remarked on this. Gran was working on the computer, her back to me. When Mom went to get Coral from the bedroom Gran, her eyes never leaving the screen, said, “Yeah, she lost weight. She had trouble with Coral’s daddy. He’s in jail now, for twelve years.

So Coral’s model of the men closest to her, daddy and grandpa, is that they are behind bars when she visits them.

When Coral reached twelve months, (chronologically 15 months, but adjusted to 12 because of her prematurity. We work according to Stanford protocol which is that premature infants are adjusted for their gestational and chronological age until they are two years old), her mom began to work and study, so I saw Coral in a daycare.

The daycare providers are of Filipino descent, and all the children in their care are Asian, with the exception of Coral. One day Coral and I sat on their living room floor, coloring in. Rather, she scribbled horizontal and vertical lines and began to copy circles. I felt her scrutinizing me. Suddenly she said "Nesta, your eyes are so big." I had never been told this. I looked at her inquisitively and she placed her fingers at the outside corner of her eyes, and pulled them up at an angle!

Another day she stood behind me, playing with my curls, lifting each one up at a time. "Who braids your hair for you, Nesta?" she asked.

One afternoon when the kids lay down for nap time I sat beside her on her cot and she stroked my arm. Suddenly she said:
"Nesta, your skin is all white under your arm and kind of brown on top, do you bathe?"

Coral and I chatted about her family, the books I read to her, and her favorite cartoon characters. She began to speak very well. Because she was such a pretty dainty little thing, it always amused me when a loud drawn out nasal “huhhhhh” came out of her cupid’s bow mouth whenever I said something she didn’t understand.

Sometimes before I left she would hop into my lap and cry, “I miss my daddy.” Her mom gave her a gift of a locket with her dad’s picture in it. Then mom told her he’s in jail. Mom told me Coral was big enough to understand that.
A few months before Coral’s third birthday, I explained that I would no longer be coming to see her. I always explain this to my wee ones, even if they don’t seem to understand. I do not like to just leave abruptly.

Towards the end of every visit I took out my pen and paperwork, and wrote a brief summary of what we had done during the hour. When she saw me remove my pen from the clipboard Coral knew I was getting ready to leave soon and she’d beg, “Don’t go, we have to finish our coloring, put me to sleep, please don’t go.” Sometimes she worked herself up so that she lay on the floor drumming her heels and crying. The daycare worker would have to come and get her. It got so that I began to think I shouldn’t go at all, to prevent these wrenching farewells.

So when I began telling her I would no longer be coming to see her I explained that this is a good thing. “You will be three years old. This is a big event in your life.”

Ever since she began to be aware, she looked forward to her birthdays. Her mother gave her lovely parties at special venues with all the cousins in attendance. A soon as one birthday ended she began to counting the days to the next one. First one, then two, and now very soon, the big three. I explained that I won’t be coming because she is doing so very well. At first she didn’t seem to pay any attention to what I said, simply talking about something else. However, by this time I knew that nothing went by Coral, she saw and heard and observed everything around her, so her reaction was somewhat baffling to me. Then one day mom told me that Coral told her that I won’t be coming. “Nesta must always come,” she said to mom.

On my last visit I gave her a little gift and made a card for her, which I hoped she would read one day. I told her that she was a special and gifted child. I love her very much, and I promise I will keep in touch.


Cut to one evening, three years later. Coral had requested to visit me and her mom brought her over. Per Coral’s request she and I went to Barnes and Noble. She picked out Cinderella and we sat at a table in the childrens‘ section. The book was open and Coral sat next to me looking intently at the pictures, I thought. I read “Once upon a time there was ………” and Coral stopped me. She pointed to the O in ‘Once’ and said “Nesta, why did you say W? There is an O there, not a W?
Later that evening, in accordance with her next request we went for pizza and ice cream. I do not have a child seat in my car, so I told her I would strap her in the back seat. She informed me she would get in next to me and if we saw the police she would duck!

When we got to the Pizza parlor Coral knew way better than I did how to order, and what to order, and how to sprinkle on the cheese and get her drink! She wanted to know my favorite ice cream flavor. "Chocolate and vanilla" I replied. “Ooh,” she said. "My favorites too. Nesta, we have so much in common.”

I have remained in contact with her family ever since. Coral is doing very very well.

Dad has called Coral once a week all the time he has been in jail. Very soon he will be released.

Saturday, July 21, 2018

Begin Again

Saturday morning. I am drinking coffee. The radio is in the background while I read the SF Chronicle online.
I vaguely hear the tail end of an interview with a woman writer - something about coming to America to begin again.
Apparently her book is based on this, but I am too late to hear her name, or the name of her book. Of course I could go online to check, but I don't. I feel a tingling in my nervous system, this remark has deeply impressed me.

I was in Montreal for 5 days last week - (more about that later.) There I was faced with the inevitable question from new extended family members.

"Why America? Why California?"

Of course I have thought about this for the last almost 40 years! I have dreamed about it, written about it, discussed it extensively, spent a long time in therapy. And of course I have many ideas, theories, thoughts, but something about the term "reinvention" touches a nerve. I don't think that thought ever came into my conscious mind! How odd, it must have always been there, percolating, simmering, bubbling, but it is in this moment, this morning, that it feels like it has surfaced.

People come to America to begin again, to reinvent themselves. I came to shed the identity both of being married and being widowed so shortly afterwards. I came to form a new identity as a young, single woman. One with enough courage and sense of adventure to begin a completely new life. (Of course I did not feel at all courageous - this is in hindsight.)

If my first pregnancy had not ended in a miscarriage I would have been the mother of an infant when the war began. If my second pregnancy had not ended in a miscarriage as well, I would have been seven months pregnant.

From 2 o' clock on Yom Kipur on October 6, 1973 a new life began for me. I am sure if I had been a mother I would have stayed on in Israel and probably would have remarried, but I was no longer a mother, or a married woman.

But it never consciously occurred to me that I came here to reinvent myself.

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Heartsick

I find it so difficult to put my thoughts to paper when so much is happening, so fast. The news is almost too much to bear. Everyone I know keeps repeating, 'this is unbelievable.' We had better believe it, because it seems as if it is only going to get much worse.

Children ripped away from their parents. I saw a photo of rosaries that have been taken from those trying to come in. Parents being accused of smuggling in babies just to get in. Animals, murderers, rapists.

Words to stir up fear and hatred.

And now the supreme court upholding his travel ban. OMG. Knocking down labor unions, Kennedy resigning.

No end.

Thank goodness for the World Cup, but that will be over soon.

Monday, May 21, 2018

Thoughts

I write as if everyone knows the things I am refering to.

HWSNBN is the 45th Potus.

The DSM is the Diagnostics and Statistic Manual of Mental Disorders used by mental health practicioners in the USA.

PID is my definition - Post Israel Depression

It is something I experience every time I return from Israel. I am not alone - it is something all my friends who either were born in Israel, or who lived there for a long time, experience on their return.

It is a mixture of the shock of moving from one culture to another. Leaving one's family and friends behind, even though one has family and friends here. I think plane travel is really not normal. It is of course, expedient, convenient, relatively fast. I am not suggesting we return to steam ships or trains! But it is strange that we enter a tube which hurtles through space, and within a relatively short while one steps into a totally different climate, culture, way of being in the world, way of looking at the world, way of experiencing the world. Different language, currency, food, to which we acclimatise remarkably quickly.

I may have written this before, but here goes again. I waa listening to a program on NPR in which the interviewer was asking questions of men who had returned from Everest. The men said they wanted to get to the summit as quickly as possible. Of course they were accompanied by Sherpas who, to their dismay, insisted on resting, and not ascending immediately. They did this all the way to the top. When they asked the Sherpas why they wouldn't hurry their answer was that they were waiting for their souls to catch up. To me this exactly defines foreign travel. I am disoriented and 'out of sync' for quite a while, on either side. I think the definition of jetlag is in fact, a period of waiting for one's soul to catch up.

So here I am, back in the States. Another world, another culture, another reality. One of the reasons I return to Israel at this time is because it is Memorial Day. I lost my husband in the 1973 Yom Kipur War. A long time ago, decades ago, lifetimes ago, and yesterday, and today.

I cannot go every year at this time, but this year I did.

The evening of Memorial Day is a somber time of ceremonies. There is a national ceremony that takes place in Jerusalem and is of course seen on TV stations throughout the country. There is an alternative ceremony that has been taking place for at least 13 years now. It is for Jewish and Palestinian Israelis together. For all the victims of the wars, the terrorist attacks, the suicide bombs, the tragedies that continue all the time. I really wanted to go to this ceremony because I strongly feel that we are all in this together.

I was pleased that my sister and brother-in-law also wanted to attend, as did many of my friends. The ceremony was held in Gan Hayarkon in Tel Aviv. I won't describe it all, because one can read about it, and the other ceremonies. For me it was a very special occasion of communal grief, understanding, brotherhood (of course I also mean sisterhood). It was attended by at least 7,000 people. David Grosman ended the evening with a powerful speech. He spoke for all of us there, in his eloquent, articulate, and gracious manner.

What horrified me was what happened before we walked in to the ceremony. It was night time, and as we approached the security gates I heard shrieks and whistles. Men, they looked young, approached us, calling us whores and bitches. "Motherfuckers". "you deserve to die" "we can spit at you and throw stones at you," "traitors", they did in fact spit. They threw things. We continued to walk quietly, and didn't look at them.

Police were present, some on horseback. During the ceremony these young men revved their motorbikes and blew on vuvuzelas, trying unsuccessfully to drown out the speakers and the choirs. It was deeply unsettling. How universal bigotry and hatred are. Other than hearing Hebrew we could have been in the States, in South Africa, in Germany, anywhere.

But that feeling was not what I walked away with. I walked away with a warm feeling inside, that despite everything, there are still people who want to live together.

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Another Shooting

Despite HWSNBM's thoughts and prayers, and suggestions of fully armed teachers, etc. yet another school shooting - in Texas. 10 killed.

I wrote that yesterday, it is now yhe day after and this tragedy has hardly hit the headlines, superseded by the Royal Wedding. I am waiting for the students to continue their fight for bans on assault weapons and against gun violence. I know they will.As I have written before, I just do not understand the need for weapons and the need to slaughter each other. I don't understand it on any level. It is all around us, in Syria, in Israel, in Africa, in Asia. I retreat more and more from this reality which surrounds us.

And in answer to your unspoken query, yes, I have returned from my travels.

I was in Israel and I returned on April 27th, and am going through the attendant PID - Post Israel Depression. I really think this should be in the DSM. Maybe it applies to everyone who lives in one country, but was born and raised in another country, or who lived for any appreciable length of time in yet another country! This ambivalence or trivalence (if there is such a word - if not there should be) is not unique to me, and it is something I have grappled with for years upon years. Where is one's home? or what constitutes home?

No answers to anything, but I am back again, and shall continue with my occasional blog entry.


Thursday, March 22, 2018

Away

Hi there - to anyone who reads this.

A brief entry to say I will be away for the next 5 weeks, and doubt whether I will make an entry.

Be well, and I shall post something on my return.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Tipping Point

I am NOT writing this piece to change anyone's mind.

I AM writing it to vent - to attempt to manage my grief, my anger, my feelings of depression and utter hopelessness at the absolute insanity of these mass shootings. At the senseless loss of young lives because of bullets. And for the lives that have maybe not been lost, but suffer guilt for the very reason that they were not mowed down. For the bodies that have become incapacitated, paralyzed, the minds that have been traumatized, for ever. The horror of these shootings NEVER goes away, yet the headlines vanish almost instantly.
When will the people of America reach a tipping point - when will they come out loud and strong and clear, when will they shout out - NO MORE GUNS.
The hypocrisy of that man who says 'our thoughts and prayers are with you.' Bullshit - they never were and never will be.

And the mentally ill are blamed.
And the FBI are blamed.
And the school security is blamed.
And the parents are blamed.
And the students are blamed.
And the teachers are blamed.

Everything outside guns and ammunition is blamed.

I have said this before - THIS is terrorism - what is terrorism but to create terror? We do not need to seal our borders or blame immigrants.

The enemy is us. And we are also the ones who can stop this. By shouting out - NO MORE to the NRA and their money. To the scared and angry white men (sorry, white man, but this is what you have created).

And you have the gall to call ourselves a civilized nation.

And did anyone see 60 Minutes last Sunday?(before the most recent school shooting.) A law is going through congress which will allow anyone who has a gun license to take that gun with them wherever they go in America. For example, in Montana one is allowed to carry an unconcealed weapon. If someone from Montana decides to visit New York, or California, or any other state which does not have those laws, they can take their weapons with them. As one 'pusher' who was interviewed said - "It is the same as having a driving license. As long as one has a licence they can drive anywhere." I apologise for not quoting this segment exactly. It is always hard for me to repeat these interviews and shows in an articulate fashion, but do check 60 Minutes - I am not mad. These were supposedly sane individuals being interviewed.

Studies have been done on Palestinian children, Israeli children, Irish children, South American children, Afghani children, South African children, Syrian children, Mohingya children. There have been studies on the consequences of violence on children in the inner cities in America. I think by now these can be expanded to all the children of America. not just those in the inner cities.
It was found that the ones who fare the least well are those in the inner cities (and now expand it) because there is NO reason for the violence. Many family lives are no longer intact, and there is no hope. In most other countries there is always hope; that the 'good' or 'bad' side will survive (this depends on which side you are on, the 'good' or the 'bad.')
This does not hold true for the children of America. This is a nation growing up without hope. We see the consequences daily.

ENOUGH.

Monday, January 29, 2018

My present thoughts

Hi there. These are my chirpy musings for anyone who has been following some of my recent posts about being ill.

I am well aware that almost everyone I know, and those I don't know, have been ill, or are ill, this season. This despite the fact that people have received the flu vaccination, and/or have been boosting their immune systems with vitamin supplements, tinctures, elixirs, syrups, hand washing, avoiding contact with public places, and so on. A multitude of people beginning to live like Howard Hughes!

After my bout with pneumonia, I began acupuncture treatments. The acupuncturist told me that an unusually large amount of people had contracted pneumonia last summer.

So - I am going to go out on a limb with my musings.

It is my opinion that the immune system of our planet is depressed. It is impossible to separate ourselves from our environment, and our environment is ailing. The more we pollute our planet and destroy its natural healing ecosystems, the sicker we will all become.

This does not mean that I am about to embark on a totally dissolute non-caring path, but just to be aware that there are no miracle cures and instant fixes.

Friday, January 19, 2018

Roundabout

I feel like I'm on some kind of ghastly/ghostly roundabout. I was stuck on it in July 2017, then everything improved. Six months later I am stuck on it again.
I think roundabout is the right term because it is certainly NOT a merry-go-round.
Late June last year I was ill with pneumonia. In my post entitled FELLED of June 30,2017 I wrote about my getting sick and my very frustrating experience with Kaiser.
Exactly 10 days ago, January 8, 2019 I awoke with a sore throat. A sore throat for me does not bode well. It seems like that is my first warning sign of some kind of impending illness. I immediately prepared gallons of hot water with lemon, ginger, and honey, and took my Chinese pills which I swear by. Despite this I began to cough, and cough, and cough. Then came the congestion in my head and nose. Not too bad, as everyone and their mother has either flu or a bad cold. I did not have a fever and was not felled, so I knew it is not pneumonia. For 10 days I didn't contact my doctor. However, yesterday morning with no sign of this cough and congestion abating I thought it wise to tell my doctor. I sent off an e-mail and immediately received the form letter response that she is out of the office.
Roundabout -- deja-vu --here I am again, stuck at the same spot. I reacted like anyone who has been totally traumatized by a previous similar experience, I did not want to pursue the matter. However, I rallied and called to make an urgent care appointment.
Roundabout -- deja-vu --the nurse said she could not find any same day appointments, but would get a message to my 'provider's office' and someone would call me back by the end of the day.
Roundabout - deja-vu -- here I am, stuck.
I went off to my art class with my phone in my pocket. I apologised for my coughing and sneezing to my feloow students and told them that if they don't want me there, to say so. They were most accommodating, but asked me not to kiss anyone. I had to restrain myself.
Toward the end of class my cell phone rang - it was a medical assistant from another office. She said I needed to go for a chest x-ray and then she could make me an appt. with a doctor if I wanted, or I could wait for my doctor to return.(????? WHAT) I thanked her and told her to definitely make me an appt.
So this is where the medical system is quite phenomenal - I went for the x-ray and miraculously there was no one else in the radiology department. I had the x-ray and the results were sent to the doctor's office in 10 minutes flat. It would have been even less time if I could follow instructions and put on that 3 -armed robe quickly before the x-ray. Does anyone else find some difficulty in donning these items? I seem to have some visual impairment - it is most difficult for me to follow illustrations.
I went to the doctor who saw me punctually. She was a lovely YOUNG (they are all so young) woman who actually used a stethoscope to listen to my lungs, then she looked at my throat and ears. She told me the x-ray results were fine, but prescribed antibiotics, and expalained to me the reason I should take them. This is how I remember doctor's visits in the days before computers and all things digital and electronic.
I really don't know whether doctors know how palliative it is to actually look at and touch a patient.
So, that experience on the roundabout was definitely an improvement.
However, I had an issue with my landline and had to call ATT and this experience has proven to be deeply traumatic in the past. After two frustrating hours of replying to questions on an automated voice machine, and also trying to chat online with a technician, all to no avail, I had begun to wail into my cell phone - "person, human, agent", on and on. Despite my pleas the dam machine always had more questions so it would know who to refer me to - I kept on sobbing, tearing out my hair, coughing, spluttering and repeating "agent" until eventually a human answered. I do believe he actually understood the problem, and eventually admitted that it seems to be a problem with their lines and it was not my fault for not rebooting the gateway (I had done so) or my insinuations that the problem was on their side.
So, this was Thursday night - I now have to wait until Monday morning for a technician to come. The up side is someone will come (I still have hope) and solve the problem. Of course if it IS my fault, I will have to pay $99. If it is on their side, I wont pay.
My trauma comes from when I moved, over a year ago. ATT had informed me that it would be no problem and their service would fix my landline and internet on the first day. Needless to say - one month later it was resolved.
So, anyway, these are the reasons I feel like I am on a roundabout - it stops during summer, then stops during winter.
I do know that these are first world problems and frustrations, but they do niggle.