Terror

What a title!

I am terrorised by Donald Trump.

When he first began his reign of terror people I know and respect found him amusing. From the beginning I saw him for what he is - a demagogue who is sewing the seeds of hatred and playing upon peoples' fears by scapegoating anyone who is not like him (as if he is an ideal because he has made money).

I am having a hard time differentiating between what is labeled an act of terror here in the States versus the all too frequent horrendous mass shootings. What are they if not acts of terror? I just don't understand why people are not terrified of people being able to buy weapons. Something in the American psyche is very off, and this man personifies it.

Wouldn't it be nice if people began to see the fear and hatred they have projected on to him comes from them.

I have unfortunately lived through different bouts of terrorism. When I lived on the kibbutz there was a spate of terrorists coming over the Lebanese border and killing people in their homes, on buses, and children on a school outing. I remember sitting on night duty in the childrens' houses talking to the woman who was on duty with me. What would we do, we wondered, if a terrorist came into the childrens' houses? They would know where to come because we sat in the only rooms with the lights on all night. We wondered whether we could jump out of the window into the bushes, but first we would have to cover the children with blankets and make it look like they weren't there. These were not idle thoughts. The terrorists did come to places where people congregated. The other thing we fantasized about is whether we could invite them in for coffee and maybe talk to them. To hear what they wanted. We wanted to know their thoughts and desires, and to understand their point of view. Mostly we wanted to hear about what they thought they would achieve by killing innocent people they didn't know. But not once did we think about destroying them.

I am scared of the present atmosphere.

Waiting

I did begin a new post after I quit my job. and had surgery the day after.
Yes, what a way to begin retirement, or something new, we know not yet what! I was going to explain my comment in my previous post about work ending with a bang, but ..... guess what, I have no desire to write about it. It is over!
I had surgery the day after I finished to remove a digital mucous cyst from my left index finger. I had made grandiose plans for the days after surgery, but when I awoke in the middle of the night in really bad pain I realized I would not be doing anything for a while.
Three weeks later and I am much much better, the 'thing' is gone, and I have movement in my finger and am knitting again, so all is well with the world. (! - my immediate little world)
I do find myself wondering how the kids are faring in their new programs, and even pick up the phone to call their parents, but then I put it down again. I must let go.  The same thing when I drive to Richmond to see the doctor, or to pick up yarn. My car wants to veer off on its own accord to their homes!
So yes, I am entering a new phase of life. The change is enormous, and it will take quite a while to find my new way and to feel OK with not working. I realize that in this society  we are defined by what we do, when we are in actual fact, far more than that.
So for now, while I think about 'what next' I am content with my art classes, reading, watching movies, working out,  meeting up with friends, knitting, enjoying the season to hibernate and ....... thinking 'what next.?'

That's It

Yesterday, October 12 2015 (Columbus Day) I handed in my notice.

I have worked as an occupational therapist in home health and in early intervention for the past 23 years!!!!!!!!!!!!! In my prior posts I have laid out the reasons for quitting. Of course I informed my so-called supervisor, human resources etc. True to form I have not heard from them, not a word! I have heard from two people in administration, about filling in forms, etc. And so it all ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper. (forgive the misquote)

Last week I was out of town, so I didn't see the children.  I returned Saturday. On Sunday I went to the mall in Emeryville, and was standing in front of the parking ticket machine when the woman in front of me turned around and smiled. "Hola" she said. It was the parents of a boy I am presently working with. For a minute I did not recognize the mom as she had on makeup and was dressed rather differently from the way she is dressed in the home. I was delighted to see them. We walked together to the elevator. The father held the boy I work with and the mother pushed her older son in a pram. The elevator was crowded and the mom asked her son "quien es?" and at first he just looked blankly at me together with all the other unknown faces. Then I saw a look of recognition in his lovely brown eyes. He smiled at me and said "eta" - his version of my name, then he reached out and hugged me.
That hug alone makes the work gratifying.
After I handed in my notice I opened up a shoebox I have that contains photos of all the families, past and present, and thank you cards from the parents, in english and spanish. I went through them, smiling with recognition of each child. This definitely softens the blow of - I am not sure how to put it - dismissal? lack of the most basic of courtesies? ignorance? disrespect? - from those 'on high.'
I have nothing but admiration and respect for each and every one of the families I have worked with. I feel honored to have been on them in their difficult journeys as parents of special needs children. I have laughed with them and cried with them, and rejoiced in each developmental milestone. I feel privileged to have been allowed into their homes and families. They are all in my heart, and I will honor them by writing about them and our work together, and their precious little ones.

How

How does it happen that tender jade green leaves of the watsonia are rising through the  dry brown remains of the spring flowering?
How does it happen that the leaves on my tomato plant are starting to brown and shrivel?
How does it happen that when I leave my yoga class at 8 p.m.  I have to turn on the headlights in my car?
How does it happen that I find a New Year's gift from Israel outside my front door?
How does it happen that it is a year since my visit to South Africa?
How does it happen that the street is full of parents dropping off their kids at school?
How and when did this all happen? It is already September, and I have only recently got used to writing 2015.

The New Dimension

The evening was innocent enough.
 A friend invited me to dinner at a hip new restaurant on Folsom Street, in San Francisco. The city is changing, and along with it, so is Folsom Street. There are now ultra hip restaurants and new green lofts alongside the leather and chain joints and stores.
We ate at what I would term a modern diner. Delicious American food - a clientele of mixed  ages, colors, and genders.
Before we left I went to the bathroom. Or at least, I thought that was where I was going. I walked to the kitchen and was redirected. The friendly hostess came up to me, pointed toward a door on the side, and said the code is 0699, or something similar. I punched in the code, a green light flashed and I entered an entirely different dimension. Pitch dark, flashing strobe lights, mirrors lining the walls, earsplitting pulsating music. I remained stock still gaping, unsure of what universe I had entered. The DJ busy with switches and what have yous happened to look up and pointed towards the back of the room - I think it was the room and I think it was the back. I stumbled my way along, unsure of whether to dance, skip or walk. In the vibrating dark I felt my way right, left, right, and saw a door with  the welcome word, restroom. Inside a sign bore instructions to inform someone if you didn't like what you saw or if you felt harassed - I think it meant outside the restroom.
I then fumbled and tripped my way back. My only guiding light was the on again off again glimpse of the DJ  amongst the strobe lights and the loud insistent music and the mirrors.  Will I ever get back to the world I had exited, I wondered. I opened a door and there I was, back in the relative quiet of the decently lit diner.
I warned my friend who returned as surprised as I had been, even though he had been forewarned. I felt like Harry Potter opening an innocent door to an entirely new universe.
Things have changed in San Francisco, especially south of Market, and they weren't exactly sane before!

Cherries and memories

For quite some time now I have been ruminating about the very subjective nature of memory . I was discussing this with my sister who lives in Israel. She is six years younger than me and so we have different memories of growing up in the same house.
For some reason, recently my auntie Rebecca came to mind. Ah, I know the reason. Someone in South Africa is working on a history of the Jewish families in South Africa, and my sister is in contact with this person. My sister is really the family archivist.  So we were discussing memory, and a wonderful memory bubbled to the surface of my mind. Sunday mornings in Berea with Auntie Becky. She was the mother of my dad's cousins, and about once a month we would go as a family to visit. her. I remember her flat with a long corridor along which my brother, sister, and myself would run. Auntie Becky had twinkly eyes and curly (possibly permed) grey hair. She always served us tea and these wonderful things she called 'heisenblozen' - like fried dough dipped into icing sugar. Whatever they were, she made them, and they were divine. You bit into the dough and it cracked on your tongue and you licked the icing sugar and it made everything sweet. My sister and I both remembered those things, and the taste of them. What she doesn't remember are Auntie Becky's cherries. Before we left she would take a bottle of brandy out from a closet - apparently she put cherries into this bottle. She would judiciously give each one of us children a cherry, and my parents would get two each. My memory after eating the little bomb is of sugar and fire and laughter and a warm feeling that overtook me
Why do I remember this? At this moment I have boiled together sugar, water, cardamon seeds, lemon juice and brandy and I have poured it over cherries (organic of course) which I pitted.
I cannot wait for them to be ready!

Artwork

OK - so I have not been writing a blog a week, (a promise quite recently made to me by me, and only now have I dared to put it on paper.) In my head of course, I have composed entries, but as you may have noticed, they don't get out of my head. However, I have not given up on creativity entirely. Below are examples of my artwork in chronological order. I began taking a class last year, the medium is acrylics.

These are my very first attempts at any artwork. I only discovered this new joy a year ago, and this is just one of the reasons there is not a weekly post. Hah.

1.